Dinner Bell

[marisolfcanela]

There's something wonderful about being lost in one's work - the casamiento bubbles away on the stove, thickening nicely alongside the dosa, whose edges are just beginning to curl.  Marisol's mind is quiet, awaiting the snap and pop of the chicken joint under her fingers.

The knife cuts cleanly through the joint, separating the thigh from the leg, just in time to flip the dosa.  Service is still some ways off, but now is the time for family dinner - the kitchen's staff sharing a meal before getting down to business.

Or, at least, it would be, if someone hadn't pulled the string upstairs to warn that trouble's coming.

Up the stairs, then, wiping her hands on her apron before hanging it on its peg.  She hardly needs to look to see what form trouble's come calling in today.  The familiar voices of Jasper and Frank grate in her ears before her head has even poked above the steps.  She sighs, rolls her eyes, and offers up a silent prayer to San Miguel before putting on her most acceptable smile.

"Hola, señores," she offers, much less inclined to bother with English for their sake.  "What can I do for you today?"

"You'll be wanting to get your papers in order," rumbles one of them, "before Spices starts nosing around.  I hear his temper's especially fiery lately.  It ain't pretty, like.  You can ask anyone."

It's going to be that sort of day, isn't it?  "I saw."  There had been the hatpin seller's burned down last week, tragic fire, wasn't it?  "You're not getting an echo out of me.  And you can turn around and get out," she suspects they haven't noticed the way her hands are shaking this time, or any other time they've done this song and dance before, "Or I'll make sure someone isn't very happy with you."

The other one leans on his sledgehammer.  "It seems that we are at an impasse, Jasper."

"Whatever are we to do, Frank?"

Frank scowls.  "What can we do, Jasper, except listen to the lady today?  Maybe not next time."

There's a sarcastic set to the way Jasper adjusts the lapels of his coat as he turns.  "Right.  Keep that in mind."

Marisol watches them go, out the door and, through the glass windows at the front of the bar.  Only when they're out of sight around the streetcorner does she wobble her way behind the bar and draw a glass of water.  "Who pulled the bell?"

One of the regulars, Hanley, she thinks his name is, nods.

"¡Bien hecho!  Next two drinks, gratis."  She leans against the bar, heavily, shaking still as she blinks away the thought of her home in flames.  "Not the good stuff."

Dinner will be a little late tonight.