The heat was always the first thing Sasha felt. Not the soft kind of warmth that wrapped you up, no — the heavy, sweaty kind that clung to your back and made your shirt stick in places you didn't want to think about.
It was barely 10:15 a.m., and the restaurant kitchen already sounded like a war zone.
"Hot behind!" someone yelled, and Sasha barely dodged a steaming tray of eggs Benedict.
She rolled her eyes. "I swear, one of these days, Luis, I'm going to pretend not to hear you and let you crash into me."
From behind the line, Luis, the cook, smirked. "Then you'll wear breakfast, cariño."
Sasha didn't smile. She was already pissed.
The morning rush had barely started, and the dish drop station — that sacred, steel counter where servers could dump dirty dishes and flee — was overflowing. Plates stacked in a leaning tower, cups balanced on top like glassy dominos, and silverware scattered like casualties.
"Where the hell is Debbie?" Sasha muttered.
As if summoned, Debbie appeared from the back, gliding in like she owned the place — which she didn't, but try telling her that. Mid-40s, apron stained, hair pulled back in a rough bun, and a permanent scowl etched into her face.
Sasha didn't bother with hello.
"Debbie, the dish drop is full. Again."
Debbie didn't look at her. She walked slowly, deliberately, picked up a single spoon, and began washing it at the sink.
Sasha blinked. "You're kidding me."
Debbie sighed dramatically. "I'm not happy this morning."
Luis snorted. "Shocking news."
Sasha shoved aside a plate, ignoring the greasy mess it left on her sleeve. "Not happy? Debbie, you haven't touched this pile."
Debbie still didn't turn. "Maybe if certain people knew how to respect space, I wouldn't have to clean up their messes every day."
"You literally work in dishwashing!"
Luis laughed too loudly. Sasha glared.
"Don't you have something to fry, Luis?"
He raised his hands in surrender. "I'm just the cook. I provide the art, you all handle the destruction."
The air was thick with tension, and the lunch crowd hadn't even walked in yet.
Sasha always said she could tell what kind of shift it would be by Debbie's footsteps.
Some days, Debbie walked in slow and heavy, like the weight of the world was strapped to her back. Those days were tolerable — Debbie kept to herself, grunted when spoken to, and only started fights when provoked.
But today? Debbie's footsteps were sharp, clipped, defiant.
Sasha heard them before she saw her — the clack of worn-out sneakers on tile, a rhythm that screamed "Try me."
Luis caught her watching. "She's in a mood."
"When is she not?" Sasha muttered.
Debbie entered, tossing her bag onto the shelf with force, apron already slung over her shoulder. She tied it without looking up, face stone-cold.
Sasha didn't say a word. She'd learned her lesson.
Later, Sasha dropped off a tray, noting Debbie hadn't moved from her spot at the sink in over fifteen minutes.
"Hey, the dish drop's filling up."
Debbie didn't look up. "Is it?"
"Yes. And we've got a party coming in. I don't have space for this."
Debbie smiled, slow and bitter. "Not my problem."
Sasha's jaw clenched.
Luis passed by, muttering, "And here we go."
Sasha turned to Debbie. "You're doing this on purpose."
Debbie shrugged. "Maybe I'm just not happy."
"That's every day!"
Debbie finally looked up, eyes cold. "Then maybe you're the common problem."
Sasha wanted to scream.
But she turned, grabbed her tray, and walked away.
She wouldn't give Debbie the satisfaction.
Not yet.
The manager, Carla, stormed through the kitchen, clipboard in hand. She stopped. Eyes narrowed.
"What is this? Why does the dish drop look like a war zone?"
Sasha spoke fast. "Because Debbie—"
Debbie cut in, voice sweet like venom. "Because some servers can't do their job without throwing dishes everywhere."
Carla's eyes twitched. She rubbed her temples. "I swear, if I hear one more complaint—"
A crash. A tray of glasses tipped, tumbling off the pile. Shards everywhere.
Silence.
Carla stared. Then turned and walked away. "I need coffee before I fire someone."
Luis whispered, "I give it two hours before a knife gets thrown."
Debbie smirked. "I won't miss."
Sasha grabbed a towel, biting her tongue. It was going to be a long shift.