One Month, Julie Steimle [read me a book txt] 📗

drinking up sophisticated conversation and matured tsilk served with an extravagant version of kalp lovad, a soup served in a bread bowl with the music of crooners like Kerzan Zeldar and ballads from Torr Terr—the leader of Air Born Dust—serenading them. Their napkins and linens spread cleanly across their laps with their laughs carrying their lack of care for the world throughout the restaurant. It made Zormna sick just watching them.

She served them their bowls, their drinks, their plates, their entrees, their desserts, and their checks, all with a performed air of grace, nearly dancing to Kerzan’s love song Take My Heart, as she weaved in and out the tables. She lifted her chin properly, as well as her trays and arms. It was all she could do to keep from tossing it all in a fit of anger after each order.

Each tableful of people had their issues. Some tables demanded things to be done to inhuman exactness. Other tables demanded her full attention, mostly because the men here want to ogle her in her skimpy uniform, a skirt Zormna absolutely detested because it was so full and easily flipped. She had never really worn a dress before then, and now she never wanted to again. It was bad enough being forced to serve the High Class and P.M.s, though made much worse to have to deal with the harassment they laid on her nearly every day treating her as if she were a party favor.

As one High Class man watched her pass by his table to the nearby order registry, he reached out and gave her rear a brisk pat.

Zormna jumped then twisted back to see the perpetrator, holding down her temper. “Kindly keep your hands to yourself.”

The High Class man sat back in his seat, glancing at his dinner buddies who grinned at him for getting a bit of something. He folded his arms with a smirk. “I was just sampling the merchandise.”

“I’m not on the menu,” she said though her teeth, holding back the other things she really wanted to say to him.

A passing waitress gave her a look to get a move on, gesturing to the next set of dishes. Kerzan’s song crooned for his lover to keep him as Zormna growled to herself with a turn, dodging yet another outstretched hand that intended to feel a piece of skin also.

The men at the table made kissing noises, some snickering.

“Ignore them,” another waitress whispered, slipping into the room with a full serving for a far table.

She nodded and set her trays on the open bar, taking up the new orders then starting back into the room.

And though the men continued to make catcalls at her, she held her head high, lifting her gaze above their people and crossed into the room with her full tray, again weaving in and out of the tables to the next song, which unfortunately had to be Those Eyes. The moment Torr Terr sang, several heads turned and followed her progress across the room. By the time she reached her next table the song was well into the first verse. 

She looked down at the group of men in matching People’s Military uniforms then exhaled with disgust, recognizing one man in particular. 

“Cadet Zormna Clendar, what are you doing here?” the man asked with a strain of amazement, looking her up and down.

“Serving dinner, Dural Hendron.” Zormna grimaced. “You ordered the kalgar and the preechan, I suppose?”

“No, I ordered the kalp lovad, kalger cream pudding makes me ill.” Dural Hendron laughed with a shake of his head, his eyes flickering to the edge of her short skirt then up at the diving neckline to her blouse. “You’re no good at this. Why...didn’t you make it into the Patrol?”

The other People’s Military officers chuckled, their eyes checking out her work uniform also.

Zormna grimaced again, setting the other dishes she was carrying into their places on the table. “I did make it. I’m an aver now. I was suspended for—Hold on.” She made a face at him. “What am I tell you for? You should have heard about it. It’s in my file.”

The Dural shook his head with a laugh. “Actually, I didn’t hear. Amusing though. You, a waitress.” He then looked up and down her figure once more, lifting his eyebrows with ‘that’ look in his eyes. “That uniform suits you more though.”

Zormna frowned, pulling back with her tray as a shield. “This only lasts for a month, Hendron. Don’t think this is permanent.” 

Without another word she turned to go back to the kitchen, the song Those Eyes crooning with desire for the lady with the green eyes. <<…Full puckered lips, pink as a rose…>>

The other P.M.s started to jab Dural Hendron in the ribs. He kept grinning and pushing the men back with playful assurances, sitting up in his chair.

“Hey, Zormna! Why don’t you just marry a High Class man and put yourself out of your misery,” he said.

Her face went immediately red. She had prayed that she might be able to go through one day without this kind of harassment, but it just would not happen.

She continued to walk as if she had not heard the remark, passing again the group of young High Class men. They started to sing the third verse to the son, not letting her pass by. “Sweet pretty baby, Look at me, and maybe one day I will know your name. Looking into your gaze with a glance you’ll amaze and I will never be the same! Those eyes! Sparkling like fire…those eyes, those eyes fill me with desire!” And one of them grabbed her rear, pulling her close to him with his other hand on the small of her back.

Zormna shoved him from her. “I told you to keep your hands to yourself! Are you deaf?”

The man’s smile only slightly disappeared. Instead of being insulted or frightened, which is what Zormna had hoped he would be, the man leaned closer, rolling up his left sleeve. His family crest tattooed on his shoulder, all fancy filigreed with a small Arrassian heart in the center, stuck in front of her face for her to see—his intention to show her what a great High Class family he comes from. “How’d you like to increase your social status?”

Her mouth opened in disgust. She shoved further away from him. “What do you think I am? Some bare shouldered bimbo that’d kiss your feet? No! Push off!”

She turned to walk away but the man grabbed her arm.

“I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.” His face was flushed. “This isn’t a one night thing, girl. You can be my wife. You don’t have to be a rat and work in a place like this.”

Zormna jerked out of his hold, her teeth clenching hard as Torr Terr crooned about green eyes though her eyes were burning like she would kill him.

“Listen, boy,” she hissed through her teeth, “I’m not interested in you or your kind. So put back your naked shoulder before you embarrass yourself.”

He stood there, blinking dumbly as she shoved past him once more.

“And quit groping me.” She bent down to pick up her dropped tray.

The men that sat with him looked to her then to him, urging him to do something. Everyone was staring, including the waitresses who secretly flushed with surprise that Zormna had turned down a supreme offer of marriage.

The man eventually came to. He grabbed her arm again.

Zormna twisted out of his grip, whipping her arm back then set the tray on the counter. She turned back around to face him. “I said, leave me alone!”

But he merely jerked his sleeve down, casting his friends a look with a smirk towards her. “I’m not going to let some smart-mouthed rat woman talk to me like that. You have to give me a little loving, baby. I’m itchy for you.”

Zormna rolled her eyes at the intercom that played Air Born Dust’s Itchy, which sang just how ‘itchy’ the singer was for a woman.

The man reached out again, grabbing her right shoulder to pull her in for a forcible kiss. Zormna ducked under his arm.

He whipped around grabbing her left arm to yank her back for that kiss, but she pushed with her elbow against his chest, resisting the urge to knee him in the groin. Though she really could have clobbered him, fighting was out of the question—one of the terms of her probation.

And he laughed, drawing closer to her face, his free hand forcing her against him with sheer muscle.

But she hated that sort of man and she hated that situation even more. Even as Torr Terr sung <<…When that itchy feeling comes over me

I can hardly think. I can hardly see…>> she shoved upward against the man’s shoulders, pushing right onto them. With a flip, she vaulted over him as the song crooned <<…When that itchy feeling comes around, I’m flying high from off the ground.>>

And she landed in the middle of the restaurant.

All eyes watched her settle in the space between tables. A number of customers dropped their spoons.

The uppercity playboy stupidly stood there, having tracked her all the way along the ceiling with his arms held up in search of her, now blinking at her as she straightened her skirt to go back to work. He shook it off and stomped after her, weaving in and out of the chairs and tables…all the way until he came to the People’s Military officers where Zormna was casting Dural Hendron a scowl for teasing her. He stopped a yard away. 

“Come on back, girl,” he called with a mild coaxing of the hand.  “Let’s see you do that again.”

Dural Hendron snickered, nudging Zormna in the side. “Why don’t you marry him?”

Zormna made a face. “Don’t you get started with that again, Hendron. I’ve had enough of it.”

The man so eager after her stepped up to the table, looking first at Zormna’s irate expression then at the P.M.’s uniform. “You talk like that to a People’s Military officer?” He grabbed her arm. “Are you a fool?”

Dural Hendron laughed as he said, “She’s Surface Patrol. She only dares it because we’ve done work together.”

The man let go of her arm at once, taking a step back.

A smile cracked across Zormna’s face, curling up deviously as her eyes sparkled. “I was trying not to hurt you.”

The man just shook his head, giving her body another look over. “That’s scabs. That’s roach meat. There is no way she’s Surface Patrol.”

With a smirk Dural Hendron nodded. “She doesn’t look it, does she? That figure doesn’t belong in the Patrol. It belongs in a—”

“That is it! Dural Hendron.” She whipped around with a glare just for him. “If you make one more crack about this outfit…when I’m back in uniform I’ll flatten you!”

The P.M. only laughed. “By all means, go ahead. I think I’d love it if you held your body against mine.”

Huffing loudly with disgust, Zormna tromped back to the kitchen.

Dural Hendron and her stalker gazed after her, both sighing.

“She must really hate being away from the Patrol.” The uppercity player murmured. “Poor baby. Poor beautiful baby.” Then he started after her again.

Dural Hendron stopped him. “Don’t bother. She’s middlecity born, Surface Patrol raised fireball that hates everything about you and the uppercity. The only thing you can manage to get from her is a bloody nose.”

Then Dural Hendron’s table rose, leaving the man to himself.

Before parting, Dural Hendron whispered into the man’s ear. “Forget her. Go look for a real undercity wench for your thrills. That girl has the pride that rivals a Tarrn, and well-earned too. You’re looking at the wrong person for a fling.”

The P.M.s departed, waving to the host at door as they scanned their data cards through to pay for their meals.

Frowning, the uppercity man sighed once more then stalked back to his table to join his fellows with the bad news. Zormna glanced up from the kitchen window and watched that crew leave after a