She didn't like answering the phones. But she had to. After she let them ring for long enough. And when no one else came she reluctantly stepped closer. Slowly, hoping it would stop ringing before she got near to reach out. To answer.
The voices on the other end. Demanding. Sometimes patient. Always hungry. She took their order. Hating not knowing. What? You haven't memorized it yet? Didn't I tell you? How many times do I have to tell you? Hold on please. Let me check. Can you wait? I'll have to ask.
Scribbling. Pausing. Frowning. The slip before her full of pen markings. I don't think I spelled that right. What was the price for that? It comes with a side of what? Forgetting to take names. Forgetting to ask.
That woman comes in. From that hot place in the back. Neatly patting her hair. Eying the slips. Hurry. What are you waiting for? The kitchen is empty. She entered farther into the grimy and hot room. Wondering why people bother to call. Hoping they would stop calling.
He sees the slips. She worries after she leaves them in his care. She doesn't see him as she peers anxiously through the door.
As the food begins to come out, and the slips with them, That woman eyes them again. She watches her. Taking her pen. That woman, ignorant of her gaze. Slowly. Distractedly turning her C into an S. She didn't have to hear it. Can't you learn anything?
People come in. Real now. Not just voices. They take their reheated and greasy pleasures. Rushing in and then out. That woman takes their money. They don't let her do it. Maybe she is too new. Or maybe...but they wouldn't taint their minds with such thoughts.
That woman disappears back into the recesses. Doing something. Not doing something.
She waits. Watches the phone. Willing it not to ring.