Enigma

Amari Iliescu groaned. Her feet hurt and she could feel a migraine creeping up from the base of her skull. Her arms were so sore that she couldn’t summon the energy needed to fix her unruly brown hair, which was trying to escape the confines of her ponytail. It’d be fine for a few more hours, she told herself.

Waitressing in a high-class restaurant in downtown New York City was crazy as it stood, but combined with three weeks of constant 11-hour shifts and trying to find a new apartment before the month’s end due to a peremptory landlord who was threatening to kick her out for an incident that was not in any way her fault, it was hell. Not that “hell” being a describing word for her life was any different from the past few years. Amari couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t stressed or overworked. There was always something.

It all started with her deadbeat brother Randall who, after being dishonorably discharged from the Navy after a scandal that displayed just how much of an imbecile he was, asked to move in with her. It would have been fine if he had tried to get a job and help pay rent, as New York City was not hospitable to those who couldn’t even afford insurance. But, being Randall, he increased the electric bill by one hundred dollars and refused to leave the apartment. He even took over her room, leaving Amari with the couch, which was covered in stale chip pieces and Cheeto dust from his slovenly habit of eating while watching TV.

Even after Amari had kicked him out, misery continued to find her. She lost her job working at an accounting firm, had her kitchen start on fire because of a faulty part in her oven, among other things. Her life was far from glamorous, and she was feeling every bit of that right now. She had just gone on break during the last leg of her shift and was examining a new ladder in her wearing tights when he walked in.

No, it wasn’t a lover, a friend, or anything remotely near that point. Andrew Taylor was not a friend. Andrew Taylor was Amari’s sworn enemy, and she was his. Well, that was years ago. Andrew Taylor (the only name Amari decided to call him that wasn’t an insult) and Amari had been at odds for years, ever since they had met, in fact. There wasn’t a soul on Earth who knew who or why the arguments began, however, they grew from feuds in elementary school to physical brawls in middle school and onward to the most vicious verbal clashes their school had ever witnessed in high school. Now, ten years later, Amari was all but forced to work in the vicinity of her adversary. Andrew Taylor had gone to school and had been working as a respected chef at Daniel going on three years now. Amari had to fish this information out of unwilling coworkers, as there was no way in hell she was going to speak to him under any circumstances. Andrew Taylor and Amari were enemies; always have been, always will be.

She did have to give him credit, though. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since she arrived two months ago, despite having incredibly similar schedules. He didn’t even give her a second glance when she walked into the busy kitchen for the first time, a rainy day in April. In fact, he barely spoke a word to anyone. He generally seemed absorbed in his work to do much more than answering vital questions or quietly instruct a fellow chef in a new technique or seasoning type. Not like she was watching or anything. Just simple observations. Amari was definitely the type to initiate a standoff, but so far, Andrew Taylor had been nothing short of a model citizen. When he did speak, he was kind and helpful, though his discussions were brief. This fact drove Amari up the wall. This could not be Andrew Taylor. surely there is some animosity there. This is all just a façade, I know it. Some day, he’ll snap, she speculated. he had to.

This arrival was no different than their other interactions from the last two months, which were nonexistent. If anything, this man was consistent, Amari noted. Andrew Taylor did not spend his infrequent, brief breaks in the staff break room. He would always walk the seven steps from the doorway to the fridge, grab a paper bag that presumably contained his meal, and, without glancing at anyone in the room, would walk the seven steps back to the doorframe, grabbing his Milford wool peacoat from the freestanding coat rack on his way out, just as he always did. Amari supposed he smoked, which would explain his disappearances. It seemed like a decent excuse to be antisocial. Okay, maybe she was watching him. But the more she watched him, the more difficult he was to figure out, and the more questions Amari had. Andrew Taylor was an enigma, but Amari would be damned if she couldn’t figure him out.

_________________________________________________________________

Just when Amari thought this particular couldn’t have gotten any worse, it started raining. Valentine’s Day was by far her least favorite holiday. In fact, she loathed it. Amari had been through one too many rough relationships and bad breakups, which caused anything remotely mushy or romantic to leave a sour taste in her mouth. At this point, she didn’t believe love existed, at least not for her.

Amari believed she was always fated to work on Valentine’s Day, but it was likely because she was one of the few who never had a good enough excuse to ask for the day off. On the plus side, the tips were always favorable. Amari guessed most of these Valentine’s tips were out of pity, but she never thought to ask. It didn’t matter to her, not anymore. It had been almost a year since she had started at Daniel, and the only thing that had changed at all was her newfound ability to function as a competent waitress while running on 2 hours of sleep and 6 shots of espresso.

In this time, Andrew Taylor had spoken to her exactly once. In September, the blond-haired chef shocked Amari by warning her that one of the new waitresses had forgotten an entrée that needed to go out with three other meals for the same table. His smooth tenor voice rang through her ears and she felt paralyzed, although her feet moved, saving her from certain embarrassment. She couldn’t look at him for a week after that. It had been months since then, and nothing had changed except her silent opinion of the mysterious Andrew Taylor.

It was obvious now that Andrew Taylor held no ill will towards her, at least none that he ever displayed. Whether or not he really changed or if he was just professional enough to keep his opinion of her completely to himself was beyond her knowledge. Amari’s blood-red hatred for the man had slowly transformed into latent curiosity, which was later followed by genuine fascination.

Amari began to recognize a myriad of details concerning Andrew Taylor. It was obvious that being a chef was truly Andrew Taylor’s calling. Amari had never before witnessed such skills with a knife set. His motions were rhythmic, possessing an almost musical quality, even when under extreme stress. During these times, he had the appearance of a ballroom dancer, whirling and twirling with such exact precision that it looked effortless. Not to mention his apron, which was constantly in motion, being whipped about like a dress in the wind. This was almost comical to watch, although it was a rare occasion, since, at those points, Amari was otherwise occupied. When something was not quite to his specifications, he would furrow his brow a little and whisper to himself under his breath, although what he said was an enigma. He never yelled nor raised his voice like the other chefs in the kitchen. If Amari didn’t know any better, she would have thought he was incapable of doing so. He always maintained a meticulous workspace and would touch up dishes until the moment they went out, but continually had the look of “I could have done better” on his face. Amari felt very detached and also slightly uncomfortable, analyzing Andrew Taylor like this. She knew nothing of his life, what happened post-graduation, or literally anything else about him. It’s official, Amari thought. Andrew Taylor is a changed man. She was at a loss as to what she should do with this information.

As expected, Daniel was packed from open to close with lively affluent couples enjoying the holiday and Amari barely found the time to breathe. Her fitness bracelet calculated that she had run 10 miles, which was probably accurate. She had spilled 2 glasses of wine and almost dropped a third, dropped a lobster tail on the floor, and been berated by multiple customers within the first hour of her shift. Her break couldn’t come fast enough.

At 9:30, Amari stumbled into the break room and all but fell on one of the metal folding chairs, passing out in exhaustion. It only felt like moments before the maitre d’ was shaking her awake, speaking a rapid blend of French and English in his frustration. Although the prestigious restaurant closed at 10:30, it was around 11:15 when all the guests had finally left, most in exuberant, drunken clusters. Amari finished cleaning the dining room by midnight and brought all the tablecloths to the back for laundering fifteen minutes later. Nobody was there to help her, as one of the younger waitresses had taken off early without her knowledge. She could barely see through the sweat and tired goop that had accumulated in her eyes from sheer debilitation. The prominent wad of cash in her pocket did nothing for her impatient, bitter mood. This particular mood was aggravated by Andrew Taylor’s presence, although she wasn’t sure why, as he (as usual) did not speak to her or look her way.

By the time she clocked out with shaky hands, it was pouring. Amari hadn’t even thought of bringing an umbrella with her before she came, which was foolish. What was worse was she had to find a cab at this time of night. She may be waiting for five minutes before one even showed up on this block. The small brunette thought of this and was fighting back tears. Finally, she mustered an ounce of bravery and exited the doors as fast as she could. Mistake. The frigid raindrops soaked through her jacket within seconds, then the shivering began. As she expected, the streets were more or less deserted.

“Damn it!” Amari cursed, teeth chattering. She looked hopelessly towards the locked doors of David, knowing no help would come from there, before frantically searching the streets for a sign of an empty taxi. A couple cabs passed her by, but were occupied. “This has to be the worst Valentine’s Day ever,” Amari fought back tears. Not that she’d had many great ones, but this one was definitely her worst.

Finally, just finally, as her hands and feet were going numb and her lips were turning blue, a glorious yellow taxi rounded the corner and pulled up to the curb where Amari was standing.

“Thank God,” she barely whispered. Her lips no longer were able to form words properly. The taxi was wonderfully warm and cozy. What a godsend. Amari would have been more that content to lie down in the backseat and sleep for the next eight to ten hours.

“Y’alright there, miss? Ya look downright chilled to tha bone,” The driver, who had a lilting accent, turned back in his seat to look at Amari’s shivering form with compassion. She used her last bit of strength to tell the taxi driver her home address. The man nodded and looked out the window towards the glowing CLOSED sign in the window of Daniel. “Nobody should have ta stand ousside in this weather. Now don’t ya worry, lassie. We’ll getcha home in no time.”

Just as the taxi was going to pull out onto the road, there was a muffled yell of “taxi!” and a rapping on the glass window. Amari opened her drooping eyes long enough to view the last person she expected to get into a cab with her: Andrew-fucking-Taylor. No. There was no way this was happening. Yet, he stood there, his blond locks hanging in wet strands that stuck to his forehead and tried to block his brilliant blue eyes, eyes that Amari had never really noticed before. He looked in better shape that Amari, both physically and emotionally, although he was still partially standing in the rain and he had worked two hours longer than she had.

“Do you mind if I hang a lift? It’s impossible to get a cab at this time of night.”

His voice was so soft and sweet. Although he never spoke to her, she always remembered his voice. Every malice melted away from Amari’s mind, and all she could do was nod fervently and scoot from the middle to the far end of the cab with as much ardor as she could gather. Just like everything else Andrew Taylor did, his movement to situate himself in the cab was graceful and poised. Flashbacks of spilled wine and food due to clumsiness or foolishness crowded Amari’s mind for a moment, bringing a small frown to her thawing face. She covered her stomach with her arm in what she hoped was a casual motion, trying to hide the burgundy stain of a vintage cabernet she had spilled on herself while clearing a table after closing.

“Andrew Taylor.” Stupid! Of all the things to say to the man, you say his name?! Get a grip, woman!

“Yes?” His eyes glinted, a subtle, ageless humor flitted across his features. Oh shite.

Amari couldn’t bring herself to actually ask her question, partially because as soon as she looked into his eyes, she had forgotten it. The last time she was this close to him, it was 11 years ago, just before the graduation ceremony began. She had only seen unbridled contempt in his eyes then. Never before had she seen the blue of his eyes so soft and kind. Amari was starting to wonder if she had actually fallen asleep and this was her brain’s way of punishing her. Well, if this is a dream, then I better make good use of my time.

“Why?” She asked. The woman meant to say more, to expand her question, but that was all that would escape her lips.

“What do you mean?” There’s that glint again. This can’t be real. The real Andrew would never take a cab with me, much less talk to me... Yet the fabric of the seat underneath her fingers felt too real, too solid to be a dream.

“You don’t, hate me?” Amari’s face was buckled in worry. This could still be an act.

“If I hated you, would I be riding in the same cab as you?”

“Well, I guess not.” Amari’s cheeks flushed and she gazed at a tarnished nickel that sat in one of the seat hems between her and the chef. She pushed herself awkwardly towards her side of the backseat.

Andrew shifted in his seat to face forward, his expression contemplative. “I've thought long and hard about a lot of things since my mom died. She taught me a lot of things over the years, but the one lesson I never acted upon was ‘love your enemies’. On her deathbed, she mentioned you, even though she didn’t know you well. She hoped that we could one day reconcile and put aside our differences and get along. I was twenty and still full of pent-up anger towards you and many others, but as I sat at her funeral, staring at her casket, it all fell away. I realized that life is too short to have regrets, even if they are regrets you don’t know you have yet. I was struck by every cruel thing I had ever said to you, to anyone, and how much that must have hurt. Realizing this, I didn't speak for over a year in fear that I would say something malicious. Through the grief of losing Mom, I did lots of soul searching. I knew just one thing; I didn’t want to hurt anyone again. Ever. And that included you.”

Amari didn’t know she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips. Andrew had turned to look at her again, but she barely noticed. she made no effort to conceal her roiling emotions. There was an ache in her heart now, and it was growing every second. All the words she had exchanged with Andrew in school flashed through her mind. Amari felt deplorable. She had been completely awful to him, and for what? She had gained nothing at all from having Andrew as her mortal enemy. Amari glanced at those kind eyes and the dam broke.

Through the quaking sobs, Amari felt a warm, calloused hand touch her arm ever so gently. She shivered, but from what she didn’t know. What she did know is she wanted more of that warmth. She wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by it, for it to warm every cold part of her, including her heart, which was far colder than everywhere else. And that she got.

Andrew took her in his arms, an action unfamiliar to him, but he felt the draw and acted without hesitation. He had dated before his mother died, but never truly had he tried to understand women, especially Amari. They had worked together for almost a year and he saw the change in her since she first walked through the kitchen door. When she first arrived, he could see the contempt she still held for him, but the months passed and he got to see Amari for who she truly was: strong, relentless, and fiercely beautiful. He knew when she was watching him, and for awhile it was stressful for the chef, but he saw her gaze become softer and her inquisitiveness more out of curiosity than a desire to find a weakness in him. He found his own movements during his cooking becoming more artistic and graceful of their own accord. This change confused him for a long time until he gazed directly into Amari’s chocolate brown eyes, filled with tears, which was when he was certain it was for her.

Amari had stopped crying, but the hiccups and sniffling remained. She knew she didn’t want this moment to end, so she refused to open her burning eyes. However, she couldn’t ignore the silken voice that invaded her tirade of thoughts and memories.

“Will you be okay?”

Again, Amari was caught dumbfounded and, before she could register what she was doing, she pulled herself upright and took her head from Andrew's shoulder, where she had found her head moments before, and, straddling his lap, kissed him with every ounce of passion she had. She felt him start in surprise underneath her, they were so close, but without hesitation, he kissed her back with equal fervor. Amari’s body was liquid fire. She twined her hands in his hair, which was still slick from the rain, and felt Andrew’s arms inch around her in a firm, comforting embrace. The musty interior of the cab fell away and she was floating in space. It took her a few moments to register Andrew’s words when he huskily whispered in her ear.

“Come to my place?” He stroked her side, making her shiver.

Amari gently kissed Andrew’s jaw in response and fiddled with the while braided buttons of his chef's coat, earning a groan from the man underneath her.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” His voice made Amari feel burning hot, and she made it her mission to impart this heat and kissed down Andrew’s neck while he struggled to tell the cab driver the new destination.

As Andrew tilted her chin upwards to kiss her once more, Amari had only one final, fleeting thought: Officially not the worst Valentine’s Day ever...