Free Burning Down the Spouse by Dakota Cassidy

sat beside her on the bath mat, her paws primly in front of her, dark eyes observing Frankie in typical stoic fashion. “Just remember, I’m doing this for you—because kibble costs money. But I don’t like it. Got that? If you didn’t need to eat, I’d just stay in bed.”
    That train of thought became a theme for her first day at Greek Meets Eat Diner. Upon her arrival, loud crashes of pots and pans came from the kitchen followed by words, harsh and foreign, mingled with laughter and a lot of yelling.
    Frankie winced, pulling the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, unsure where to go, but desperately hoping to avoid the overwhelming chaos by finding a dark corner. It wasn’t so much the yelling. God knew Mitch had yelled at her, more often than not, without her even realizing it, as their relationship disintegrated. It was the overstimulation she found abrasive and jarring. Like small needles puncturing her cocoon of quiet.
    The diner held only one customer, most likely due to the fact that not even vampires were putting on their eye masks and night cream yet.
    A man, just an inch shy of Nikos’s tremendous build, and almost as handsome, skidded out of the kitchen, his face a mask of anger. Frankie backed up against one of the red vinyl stools lining the long counter. “You’re here!” he all but shouted.
    She was. Frankie nodded, wincing. “I am, and you’re an awesome welcome wagon.” She jammed a finger in her ear to stop the ringing.
    The man grabbed her by the hand, dragging her back to the kitchen. With a harried look, he dropped her hand and spat, “I can’t find my spatula.”
    Frankie’s eyes went blank. “Your spatula.”
    He nodded like she should know exactly what he meant. “My spatula. Can’t find it anywhere. How the hell am I supposed to make omelets for the morning rush if I can’t find the damned thing?”
    “I don’t want to sound judgmental, but you only have one spatula?” What kind of cook had one spatula?
    “It’s my favorite,” he reasoned.
    No one understood that better than Frankie. Mitch had a favorite everything, too. If Mitch lost or misplaced his favorite anything, she was in charge of making it appear out of thin air. “Am I in charge of spatula recon?”
    “I don’t know your exact job title, but you’re in charge of whatever needs taking charge of. You’re Frankie, right?”
    He didn’t recognize her either? Please. Had televisions gone the way of Tears For Fears and ripped sweatshirts while she’d hibernated? “I’m Frankie. Yes. Frankie Bennett.” She remembered to hold out her hand in introduction. If nothing else, she’d earn courtesy points on her work eval with Nikos.
    The tall, dark man grabbed it and gave it a brisk shake. “Cosmos Antonakas. This here’s Hector Louis, our other short-order cook, and he can’t find my damn spatula either.”
    Jamming her hands into her jean pockets, Frankie rocked back on her heels. “You said as much, and nice to meet you, Hector.”
    Hector gave her a brief smile, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes, holding up his hands to indicate they were covered in grease as a way to apologize for not shaking her hand. “Hey,” he muttered before turning back to what he was doing.
    Cosmos flapped his hands to indicate she should get moving. “So let’s go. Nik said you were going to help organize the kitchen and do the prep work for the breakfast and lunch crowd.”
    “Oh, she is here!” A woman with big hair, fashioned in some sort of bouffant, and eyes resembling Nikos’s, crowed from the corner of the kitchen. She rushed forward, her white apron fluttering about the tops of her knees, to envelop Frankie in her doughy-soft embrace.
    She plucked at Frankie’s arm and made a face. Her Greek accent had shades of light and dark when she said, “First things first. You are too skeeny. I make you spanakopita and you eat it. No make with the mouth about it either. It is a miracle you can hold up your head,