As she worked she watched Robert Holton. It was twenty minutes past eight and she knew that he had to be at his office at eight-thirty. She hoped that he would stay as long as possible. His office was only a block away and he would be able to stay until eight-thirty. He ate slowly, she knew, and he would read his paper as he ate.
She hurried back to the kitchen. Two waitresses were talking and laughing together in a corner. They were young and pretty and would probably marry in another year and never work again; in another year Marjorie Ventusa would still be waiting on tables.
She stopped in front of the mirror behind the swinging doors. Mrs Merrin always said that neatness was an important thing.
Marjorie Ventusa rubbed the kitchen steam from the mirror. Her hair was back in her face again. She pushed it viciously out of her eyes. She hated its color. It was pale blonde, a real pale blonde. But because she was getting older and because she was part Italian everyone thought that she dyed her hair. She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have it colored black. Her eyebrows were dark, thin and dark, and that made the color of her hair look even more suspicious.
A sailor she had seen several times during the war had told her that she had a beautiful figure and she had tried to believe him. She was too heavy, though. Well, she hadn’t been heavy at that time. At least not quite so heavy as she was now. She wondered what kind of women Robert Holton liked.
“Marjorie,” said Mrs Merrin. That was all Mrs Merrin said as she walked by. Marjorie Ventusa was glad. One day she would lose her temper and get fired.
The mirror had steamed up again. She took her tray and went out into the dining room. More customers had come. She put glasses of water and silverware on their tables and took their orders and gave them instructions in how to order and how to avoid paying extra for what they wanted.
Robert Holton was halfway through his breakfast. She looked at the clock over the kitchen doors. It was twenty-seven minutes after eight o’clock. She would work very hard now to get her orders taken care of and then she would have a few minutes to talk to him before he left. She usually couldn’t talk to him at lunch because he was always with someone else.
Marjorie Ventusa traveled quickly back and forth from kitchen to dining room and back again. Her hair was hopelessly out of shape now and she was perspiring.
Finally her last customer was satisfied for the moment. She wandered casually over to Robert Holton’s table.