Free Paradime by Alan Glynn

unhappy with the step up in prestige either. At the same time, I briefly imagine how I’d feel if Stanley were to tell me this morning that Yannis is fine, that he’ll be back tomorrow, that two shifts is all I’m getting.
    Actually, I’d probably be okay with that. I might even be relieved. It would mean I could look Kate in the eye again. It would mean I could stop lying to her. So, as I walk the three blocks to the restaurant, I convince myself that this is what’s going to happen, and that when it does I’ll make the necessary adjustments – I’ll express disappointment, but be professional about it, I’ll use the momentum (and maybe some of Stanley’s goodwill) to try and find a new job elsewhere. And then I’ll go home and patch things up with Kate.
    I arrive at Barcadero and the place doesn’t seem as frenetic as it did yesterday. The atmosphere is a little muted. There’s none of the usual banter going on. With Pablo I’m guessing it’s a hangover, but they can’t all be hungover. So maybe it’s that someone is in a mood and the whole kitchen is affected. I’ve certainly seen that happen, though I’m not familiar enough with everyone here to be able to read the signs with any degree of confidence. Nevertheless, things grind into gear and before long I’m totally focused on precision-dicing some pork for a ragù.
    After a while, Stanley shows up, catches my eye from across the kitchen and indicates for me to follow him. I wipe up around the prep station before taking off down the dimly lit hallway that leads to the cramped office at the back. It’s clear that Stanley is just as downbeat as everyone else is, and when I see him slumped at his little desk I get a weird feeling.
    Without looking at me, he says, in a quiet voice, ‘Nadine, our accountant, will be in later and you can talk details and stuff with her, but I’m just going to go ahead now and slot you in for all of his shifts, okay?’
    When I don’t respond, Stanley eventually turns to face me. Up close like this, I can see that his eyes are red and slightly raw-looking.
    ‘Stanley, no one has said a word to me this morning. I don’t know what—’
    ‘Yannis died,’ he says, and his face contorts a little. A tear runs down his cheek.
    ‘Oh shit, Stanley. I’m sorry.’
    ‘Yeah.’ He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and sighs loudly. ‘Two years he worked here, almost from the beginning. He drove us all crazy with his stupid jokes . . . but he was a real sweetheart. Everyone loved him.’
    I swallow. ‘Was it . . . the ulcer?’ I can’t believe I’m even asking him this. People don’t die of ulcers these days, do they? ‘Perforated, you said?’
    ‘We don’t know. His boyfriend found him last night, in their apartment. He was just . . . lying there.’ His face contorts again. ‘It’s fucking awful.’
    I stand in the doorway for a moment, but it’s clear we’re done.
    My walk back along the dim hallway to the kitchen is a long one. Yesterday I was covering for Yannis. I was anonymous, invisible. Today I’m replacing him. Today I’m the new guy.
    I feel like I should be sending a text to Kate or something, but what would I say?
    *
    And so begins this new work regime in my life, which is not unlike the one I had before I left for Afghanistan – better restaurant, okay, and slightly better pay – but basically the same. It’s still kitchen hours, still kitchen work . . . nicks, burns, high heat, tempers, ego, shouting, mind-numbing repetition. A bit like a war zone. Unless, that is, you’ve ever fought in a real war zone.
    At home, however, in terms of pre- and post-Afghanistan, things are markedly different. It’s my fault, but what’s going on between me and Kate is awful. The truth is, I’m losing her, and in a way I’m also losing me – losing that version of Danny that she allows me to be, the one who doesn’t have a label, who’s sane, who’s in control. That guy. So if I do end up losing