The first stop on this second run is Krate. It’s two boxes. I park my car around the corner, and carry the two boxes to the bar.
There’s a girl just inside the delivery entrance who tells me to watch my step because the floor is wet from mopping. She is plating some sort of strange, wirish cookie. My arms are giving out. Life and work make saints of us all. Latter Day Saints.
I tell her thanks, and forcefully say ‘corner’ as I round the corner deeper into the restaurant’s back area.
The restaurant’s administrative office is just aside the employee locker area. Sometimes people are changing when I’m standing there waiting for my check. I’ve never seen anyone get fully nude, or even down to their underwear, but still it’s a strange place to place your lockers.
Nobody is there changing today.
The Woman who writes the checks does not acknowledge me. I think she may be new. She dresses professionally, and acts professionally. The people I used to deal with looked to be quite a bit younger than her. But I have been having this thing for older women recently. I just keep thinking about them sucking my dick. First Mel, now this woman, before her even, Shasta, from the sex club. They’re never really that old, but they’re not teens. Maybe this is a mother issue…
She is talking to who I believe to be the owner of the restaurant, or should I say he is talking to her, because he doesn’t stop talking to her, even when I know he knows I’m there. He just keeps going, and going, making me wait, and not even giving her the opportunity to say anything.
Once she finally turns around, I am on my phone, so I don’t see her until I look up, her hand extended, about the level of my dick.
I give her the invoice. She works on it for a couple minutes, writing the check. The art of writing checks is almost a lost art. But she is from an earlier age so she does OK. When she hands me the check back it falls between our grips and she says sorry and then I say no, it was my fault. I pick it up. I feel like the owner of the restaurant may be respecting of that sort of behavior. He doesn’t like me bringing a hand truck into the restaurant, or shall I say the kitchen, so that’s why I walk the boxes so far, straining my arms, becoming a saint.