Our eyes met. Aydin looked away first, embarrassed by his enthusiasm. He passed a hand through thick, dark hair. “I’m twenty-seven but I’ve only managed one degree. Business and accounting, from UBC,” he said, shrugging. “It was what my dad wanted.”
I shifted, remembering the autocratic way Aydin’s father had spoken to him. Now that I knew he was a fellow radio nerd, I felt myself softening. But that still didn’t explain what he was doing there.
“Did you forget something?” I asked.
He stopped his slow pacing. “I came here to say sorry.”
Better and better. I appreciated a man who could make amends.
“No matter what happens in the kitchen, never apologize,” I said, quoting Julia Child.
Aydin blinked rapidly. I wondered if he knew he did that when he was flustered. “I meant I’m sorry I didn’t get to finish the rest of that biryani.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that, but when I looked at Aydin again, I was pretty sure he was trying to be funny. Plus I’m a sucker for anyone who flatters my mom’s food. I left him there without a word, filled up a plate, and headed back to the dining room.
Aydin had taken a seat in the same booth when I returned. I handed him the food before continuing my closing routine, occasionally stealing looks at his face as he slowly, reverently ate the basmati rice and meat. A few times I caught him looking at me.
“It would taste better with cheese curds and gravy,” I called over my shoulder.
He smiled, the expression so fleeting I might have imagined it. I moved on with my chores, refilling bottles with Mom’s famous mango-lemon-pickle achar, sneaking glances at my unexpected visitor. Had he really returned for another taste of my mother’s biryani, or did he also want to talk to me? I examined the thought, turning it over in my mind. He was cute; he liked our food; he had the rudiments of a sense of humour. Maybe he wasn’t that arrogant after all.
I looked over at him again, and our gazes tangled. “You keep staring at me,” I said.
Aydin immediately glanced away, a slow flush creeping across velvet-smooth skin. “You remind me of someone,” he muttered.
I should be wary of him, this strange man I don’t know. Except, after a lifetime in the service industry, I had become adept at readingpeople, and I was pretty sure Aydin was harmless. In fact, there was something comforting about his awkwardness. He seemed younger tonight, more carefree. I noticed his hair was shaggy, curling around the collar of his black shirt; the same silver sunglasses dangled from the front pocket.
“What’s your name?” Aydin asked after a few minutes of contented chewing.
“Waitress,” I teased.
“No, really.”
“Waitress who ordered your lunch.”
He made a face.
“Waitress you overtipped and who doesn’t make change.”
Aydin stood up and placed the wiped-clean plate on the counter. Then he grabbed three bottles and began filling them with achar.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll be done faster if I help you. My name is Aydin, in case you were wondering.”
“I heard your dad.”
A shadow crossed his face at the mention of his father, but he answered lightly. “You were paying attention.”
“I have exceptional hearing.”
“I bet you do,Hana.”
I stopped. “How do you know my name?”
He nodded at my shirt front, where my name tag was pinned.
“So you can read,” I muttered, and he laughed softly.
