Waist-Shattering Romance

"Make my meals extra hot and spicy."

"Sir," I sighed. "For the last time, this is a coffee shop, not a restaurant."

"Then where is the closest restaurant?"

"There are no restaurants around this area."

He slid some money towards me. "I apologise for the time you wasted on me."

My eyes lit up upon seeing the money; as I tried to regain my composure, I said, "It's alright, sir."

The day passed quickly, as it always did whenever he came by asking for something not on the menu.

I was thankful for his existence.

"Rebecca," someone called from behind me, right when I opened the door to leave.

I turned around, and our manager had a hand on her hip with the other resting on the table.

"Yes, Ma'am?" I answered, hoping this wasn't about her four-year-old son, whom I had given a lecture to the other day.

"Do you know any young man with short blonde hair, a nice jawline, and an ear piercing?"

"What a description," I thought, nodding my head. "He's a problematic, frequent customer."

She pointed to the kitchen. "He's there right now and says he wants to see you; he's lucky I saw you."

I ground my teeth; I knew I should have left earlier, and our manager would never agree to lie for me.

I nodded, adjusting the bag on my shoulders and walking towards the kitchen, a whistle echoing inside.

He had leaned against the wall, a cigarette in his mouth and a hand in his pocket, pulling out a lighter.

"There's a 'No Smoking' rule here."

He looked at me, surprised. "Mademoiselle, you came."

"Sir, please, what do you want from me?"

He removed the cigarette from his mouth. "Have you heard of waist-shattering romance?"

"Are you high?"

"I understand why you would ask that," he said, putting the lighter back in his pocket. "But it's a common thing where I'm from."

I stomped my foot, now impatient; there was a limited-time-only sale on milk, and I would miss it if I didn't hurry. "Please, how does this concern me?"

He stepped closer. "I do not know many women."

"And?"

He grabbed my hands. "Mademoiselle, I have a request for you. I'll pay you enough money to last till your descendants."

I shifted my hand away. "I don't do filthy work."

I headed toward the door of the kitchen; I should have known it was a waste of my time on something stupid.

"It's not what you think, mademoiselle," he called out gently.

I didn't stop, opening the door to leave.

"A dying man needs your help," he said, catching my attention.

"This better be worth it," I said, closing the door.

"My father has cancer," he said. "He has a short time to live."

I slid my hand across the table, humming to myself, "I'm still waiting for the part where this concerns me."

"Be his date."

I choked on my saliva, hitting my chest as he looked around for water, grabbed one from the refrigerator, and tossed it in my way.

I gulped it down, regaining myself. "I'm sure you're joking."

"Wouldn't your choking be pointless then?"

I put the bottle back in the fridge, brushing my hair out of my face and taking a deep breath.

He moved closer, "My father wants to go to a ball before he passes away, and he doesn't want to go alone. You're the only woman I can turn to."

I replied, "First of all, if you're pleading with me for something, I shouldn't have to look up at you."

He knelt to my level. "You can set whatever terms you like, as long as you agree to help me."

Seeing him in such an awkward position made me uncomfortable, I was just joking; I never intended to do what he was asking.

I stood him up, "Wait, you're serious? Can't you just go with your dad, or is it one of those wealthy traditions where men and women can't go without their partners?"

He shook his head. "My dad would never allow that. He wants me to bring my girlfriend, Valise."

I felt a bit sorry for him, even though I had empathy, but the thought of attending a ball with someone’s father—especially the dad of someone I actually liked—was not something I was interested in.

He was definitely irritating, and I didn't even know his name, but people like him linger in your mind for too long.

He had gotten to me a while back; I just wouldn't admit it.

Whenever he came into the restaurant with that black shirt and jacket, and ordered something completely off.

"I can't accept your offer," I told him. "Look for someone with a good heart."

He suddenly grabbed my wrist, pulling me closer, and my boot collided hard with his foot, but he didn’t flinch.

This cold, confused man had tears welling up in his eyes.

"Just one night," he pleaded. "You'll never have to see me again."

As I looked into his eyes, I saw something I didn’t expect — I thought he was untouchable. It was a relief to see he wasn’t.

"Alright," I said, pushing him away. "Just don't cry; I don't want to see that."

He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "I knew you’d come around."

I scoffed, "When's this ball happening?"

"Tomorrow."

I rummaged through my bag for my lip gloss. "Postpone it."

He crossed his arms. "I'm not the host."

I put the gloss away and stuffed it back into my bag. "I don’t have anything to wear. Should I just go with a turtleneck and baggy jeans?"

He shut his eyes for a moment, deep in thought. "My men will bring you everything you need for tonight."

I couldn't help but brighten up. "You have men?"

"Why are you so excited?"

I twirled my hair and giggled. "Oh, it’s nothing."

Then I shifted the topic, "When will I get to meet your father?"

"You'll see him at the ball. My men will provide you with a photo so you can recognise him."

I rested a hand on my forehead, pretending to check for a fever to make sure I was really okay with all of this. "Should I take an Uber or—"

"My men will come pick you up."

I nodded. "If that’s everything, I’ll head home now. I need to go catch up on the news."

"Hold on," he said, "we haven't introduced ourselves yet."

"I’m Rebecca," I replied, waving as I opened the door.

"Dam," he said.

I slung my purse over my shoulder. "I really hope your dad didn’t name you that, or I’m definitely not going anywhere with him."

He chuckled. "That was a bit rude.

"It was truthful."

He trailed behind me, shutting the kitchen door. "Just one last thing before we part ways," he said, halting me once more.

My neck was prickling with irritation. "What is it this time?"

"When you’re at the ball, let everyone you meet know, anyone who tries to talk to you, that you're deaf.