Something I can’t take back?

The thought, a flash of her skin, slick and sweaty against mine, erases the freezer-therapy. I’m so goddamned hot. I pull at my chef’s jacket again.

“Talk about what?” she asks.

I close my eyes. “After,” I say. “We’ll talk after.” I brush past her, trying my best not to touch her but, still, somehow, I’m wrapped up in her heat.

The first thing I do is change the seating chart. Then I open my email app.

Address and contact info confirmed. We’ll see you tomorrow.

I guess we’re doing this. I tighten the black bonnet around my hair, straighten my jacket, and get back to work.

My body is tired after dinner service, but my mind is like one of those online recipes with a rambling introduction and too many ads and pop-ups. I splash cold water on my face, trying to get my arguments straight. In high school, my guidance counselor told me that using I feel statements were an efficient way of communicating during conflict.

When you make changes to the restaurant without consulting me, I feel like you don’t care about my contributions.

When you make these changes while I’m busy trying to do things like train new staff, I feel like I can’t give our new sous-chef the attention she deserves.

When you wear that blouse, I feel sexually frustrated.

My arguments need work.

The restaurant is almost empty when I walk out of the staff room. Amy is going over the receipts with Maggie, so I pour myself two fingers of whiskey at the bar. I don’t even like whiskey that much. The burn is all I crave.

“Good night, Sophie,” Maggie calls, pulling her coat on.

“Thanks, Maggie. Good night.”

Amy locks the door behind her, turns off the dining room lights, and pulls the shades down in the front window. The restaurant fills with the whoosh-whoosh sound of the blacked-out fabric covering the windows.

She follows me back into the kitchen without another word. I perch against the chef’s table. If we ever used it, our guests would sit on the other side, technically outside of the kitchen but looking in on everything that happens. But we’ve never had someone reserve the table and I can’t help but think maybe it’s me. Maybe no one wants to watch me cook.

Amy stands on the other side of the counter, her back straight and feet planted. It always seems to come down to this, the two of us facing off in this kitchen.

Her hair, curled tonight, falls in her eyes. She’s wearing that shirt. My favorite shirt. It drapes perfectly, as if it was made specifically for her.

Maybe she got it tailored. Maybe she just has the perfect sample body. Maybe Amy would look good in an oversize T-shirt or a parka. Maybe it’s not the shirt at all.

Maybe it’s Amy.

“What are we talking about?” she asks.

The problem with confronting my attraction to women at thirty-one years old is I’ve had no opportunities to experiment with it. There’s been no flirtation, not with any kind of intent. There’s been no chance to kiss, to touch. There was some testing the waters in my twenties, the kind that I’d think about for hours after. Those nights were often lubricated by vodka and the excuse of performing for some male friend’s gaze and satisfaction. But really, they were always, secretly, for me.