Tonight though, we’re seamless. The term well-oiled machine is a cliché for a reason. Because that’s what we are, anticipating each other’s needs, moving in and out of each other’s space like liquid. Every dish is on time and done well. It’s the kind of service that doesn’t leave me feeling sweaty and out of breath, even though in this heat, I am those things. This is the kind of service that reminds me how very much I love to cook, to put food together like art and reap the reward of watching people eat it, happy and satiated.

By the time our last guest leaves, I’ve cut everyone but Jameela and we go through the cleanup together like we did prep, with her happy energy, though a bit more tired and subdued now.

I wipe down the counter. “You can probably head out. Thanks for your great work today.”

She smiles. “Thanks. See you tomorrow, chef.”

I close the locker room door, leaning against it to catch a moment of rest, and my mind wanders back to Amy. Thoughts of her have been standing on the edge of my consciousness all night. One of the best things about her is how hardworking she is. Even if she’s not always making the same decisions I’d make, or when she’s making my decisions for me, Amy is a pro at putting her head down and getting the job done. She can wear any hat in the restaurant, filling in for servers, mixing drinks with flair. She can change a keg and spatchcock a chicken. Tonight, it felt like she did all those things and more. I hardly saw her.

Just caught glimpses of her hands as she pulled dishes out for expo, heard the low hum of her laugh—the professional version—as she spoke to a guest sitting near the kitchen. Otherwise my head was down, too, making this restaurant work. We’re a team, Amy and I. Somehow, through miscommunication and frustration, we’re finding a way to collaborate that works. It takes a moment to recognize the swelling in my chest.

I’m proud.

A few weeks ago, I wasn’t sure of my future here. I wasn’t sure of anything, my talent and sexuality included. But we’re making it work and it’s unconventional, and yet, I think I kind of love it. The locker room is dull and Spartan: a set of old blue lockers Amy bought from a superstore that was closing, an old Formica table with only two chairs, a two-piece bathroom with a mirror on the door. Maybe someday, when we’ve pulled this place back from the brink, we can do something nice for the staff. Like get couches or redo the washroom. I want people to love coming to work here as much as I do.

I’m ready to celebrate and after tonight, I think Amy will be, too, awkward vibes be damned.

The leggings and cropped sweater I chose for tonight are casual enough that they look unplanned, but they show off my muscular legs and the soft curve of my belly while hugging my breasts. If there was a uniform to seduce Amy with, it would be this.