Christmas cake

“Waiter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’d like to place an order.”

“Of course.”

The man glanced at the woman beside him. She wore an emerald dress, bare against the season, her eyes the same sharp green under the low light. The fabric caught the candlelight when she shifted in her seat. A wool coat lay folded over the empty chair beside her, sleeves tucked in carefully, as if it had been placed there long before they sat down.

“You decide,” he said.

She smiled, resting her elbows lightly on the table. “Filet mignon with balsamic glaze.”

He nodded. “And your best Cabernet Sauvignon. Also, check on the cake.”

“I will,” Sam said, already stepping back.

The restaurant was warm, almost heavy with it. Glass walls ran along two sides of the floor, fogged at the edges where winter pressed in from outside. Each time the entrance door opened, cold air slipped through briefly, sharp and clean, before dissolving into heat and conversation. Candles burned low on small tables, wax pooled at their bases. Cutlery caught the light when diners shifted their hands.

Coats were draped over chair backs, thick wool and padded fabric abandoned for the evening. Scarves peeked out from under tables. Boots were nudged together beneath chairs, damp from melting frost. Christmas music played softly somewhere overhead, half lost beneath voices.

Sam moved through the room with practiced ease. His steps adjusted automatically to the spacing between tables, to the timing of guests reaching for glasses or leaning back in their chairs. He balanced plates without thinking, stacked empties on his arm, nodded when spoken to. Faces blended together after a while. He remembered orders better than names.

Laughter rose and fell across the floor as plates were set down and glasses refilled. Conversations overlapped, softened by candlelight and wine. Couples leaned toward each other, voices lowered as if the room itself were listening.

At one of the tables, a woman laughed and tilted closer to the man beside her. Her hand rested on the table, fingers relaxed, close to his. Sam registered it, then looked past them. It joined a long list of small gestures he didn’t linger on.

It was Christmas. One of the few nights people still dressed carefully for each other. Sam didn’t dwell on it. Work was work. Hunger was real. The rest felt optional.

He turned toward the kitchen, pushing through the door with his shoulder. It swung shut behind him with a dull thud.

Heat closed around him immediately. The kitchen was narrower than the floor outside, steel counters lining the walls, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use. The oven glowed steadily, its warmth constant. The air smelled of butter, sugar, and something richer beneath it.

“Mike,” Sam said, raising his voice just enough, “table twenty-three is asking about the cake.”

The chef didn’t turn. He was sliding a pan into the oven, movements unhurried, controlled. He checked the rack placement, nudged the pan slightly to the left, then closed the door.

“It’s not ready.”

“Once it’s in, it’s all the same, isn’t it?” Sam said, climbing onto the counter and sitting there, legs dangling.

Mike shut the oven door and wiped his hands on a towel. “No. What matters is what stays on your tongue after.”

Sam watched him without much interest. “It’s just cake.”

Mike didn’t respond directly. He reached for the scale and set it on the counter. Flour went in first, measured carefully, then leveled with the back of a knife. Sugar followed, fine grains disappearing into the bowl. Butter came next, already softened, yielding easily when pressed. Eggs cracked cleanly, one at a time, each mixed fully before the next was added.

The batter resisted at first, thick and stubborn, then loosened. Mike scraped the sides of the bowl once, making sure nothing clung there. He poured the mixture into a prepared pan, tapped it lightly on the counter, and slid it into the oven beside the others.

Another cake came out. Even rise. No cracks. He set it on the rack and waited before touching it again. Steam lifted briefly, then vanished.

When it was cool enough, he turned it out and began frosting. He worked slowly, smoothing the cream across the surface, correcting small imperfections as he went. He didn’t decorate much. Nothing unnecessary. When he was done, he stepped back and looked at it once, then nodded.

“Sam,” someone called from the doorway, “table thirty-six.”

“Coming.”

The cake was lifted onto a plate and carried out. Sam followed a moment later, picking up another tray along the way.

From the pass window, he saw it set down among other dishes, one celebration among many. Glasses were raised. A knife cut through cleanly. Plates shifted. He didn’t stay on the image. There were other tables waiting.

The night thinned gradually. Orders slowed. Chairs scraped back as people stood to leave. Coats were pulled on, scarves wrapped tight. The room grew quieter in stages, the way water drains slowly rather than all at once.

Cold slipped in each time the kitchen door opened and stayed a little longer each time.

When it was quiet, Mike washed his hands and shut off the oven.

“Done for the night,” he said.

“There’s food left,” Sam replied. “Some cake too.”

They sat together at the counter, eating without ceremony. The kitchen felt larger now, emptier.

“You’re not meeting your girlfriend?” Sam asked.

“She had work,” Mike said. “Another late night.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Three years.”

Mike unlocked his phone and held it out.

Sam looked once. Then again.

The emerald eyes. The familiar angle of her smile. The same face from the dining floor, laughing across a candlelit table.

Mike set the phone down and reached into his pocket. A small box. Inside, a ring. Emerald stone.

“Matches her eyes,” he said.

His phone lit up again.

'Babe, it’s going to be another all-nighter tonight.'

Mike read it. The smile didn’t return.

“Well,” he said, placing the phone face down, “just us tonight.”

Sam cut a small piece from what remained of the cake and took a bite.

It tasted cold.