Ray shut off the heat lamps. “Right. Start breaking down.”

My station looked like a battlefield, debris everywhere, shriveled corpses of potatoes scattered on the rubber mat by my feet. I attacked the mess, labeling and stowing the mise en place away. Scrubbed the tabletop, polishing the stainless until it shone. Knotted my trash chute bag and carried it out back.

Lucas was smoking by the loading dock, shoulders hunched against the December wind sneaking down the alley. He jumped as the door opened.

“It’s only me,” I said.

The cooks all copped their cigarette breaks when Chef wasn’t likely to see them. Eric did not smoke. Bad for the palate, he said.

I looked around for the alley cat but it was off hunting. Or invisible in the dark.

Lucas took another drag. “Nice job tonight.”

A little glow, like the spark from his cigarette, warmed my insides. “Thanks.”

“Chef really threw you into the fire, putting you on the line like that.”

I shrugged. “You know what they say. If you can’t stand the heat . . .”

“Get out of the kitchen?”

I hefted the trash bag into the Dumpster. “Don’t piss off the dragon,” I said.

Lucas laughed, short and sharp. Together, we trudged back inside. I shook out the black carpet runner under my station. Swept the floor.

Kevin, the back waiter, almost unrecognizable in his street clothes, appeared. “We’re headed to The Spot. You in?”

I hesitated. The bar would be packed with restaurant folk fresh out of service, flush with tips and gossip. Good blog material.

“Go. You’ve done enough here,” Ray said.

“Gee, thanks. Was that supposed to be a compliment?” I asked.

The sous looked down his nose at me. “If you choose to take it that way.” He pursed his lips. Added grudgingly, “You did all right tonight.”

“Um. Thank you.”

“Come on,” Kevin urged. “I’ll buy you a beer. You earned it, baby.”

I needed a drink. I could almost taste the beer, crisp and cold, sliding over my parched palate, down my dry throat. I glanced toward the office. “You go ahead,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Eric sat at his desk, an open bottle of water and a clipboard of things to do in front of him. I stopped in the doorway, unaccountably shy. Reluctant to interrupt.

Stupid. My clothes were in there. My coat. What was I going to do, ride the subway dressed like a giant marshmallow?

I marched to the closet and yanked it open.

“Good service tonight,” Eric said behind me.

“I dropped the potatoes,” I blurted.

“We all make mistakes the first time, yeah? That’s how we learn.”

I turned. He had leaned back in his chair, watching me. The top button of his chef’s coat was undone, exposing the dark hollow of his throat. He looked tired. Well, I was exhausted, and he worked harder than I did.

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you speaking from experience, or is this some Teutonic aphorism you learned at your mother’s knee?”