The door opened, someone in a greasy-grey-jump-suit darted through the front door and straight into the kitchen.<br/><br/>The friendly man behind the counter took on a surly disposition. He put his hands on his hips, and followed that person through the swinging door and into the kitchen. "Yer late, and I told you not to wear that greasy thing in here!"<br/><br/>Thoes in the dining room would be able to hear all, the restaurant was small, the walls thin, and there was an open window between the dining room and into the little kitchen.<br/><br/>She'd hear a girls voice, somewhat strained and rushed, a flatter accent compared to the bobbing and dipping voices of most Londoners. "I'm-sorry-I-got-tied-up-litterally-and-it-was-either-that-or-or-be-late-or..."<br/><br/>"Well, you're late! No helping it now, tidy up quick and get to it! My wife's waiting on me now." He emerged from the kitchen shaking his head.<span style="font-style: italic">"Americans are never punctual!"</span>he muttered.<br/><br/>A few moments later she emerged, dressed quite differently than before. Greasy jumpsuit gone, replaced by a teal blouse, simple but well fitted, black slacks, and a long black apron. She had dusty ocher skin, a round face with smooth features, black eyes framed by long black lashes. Her hair was a thick black twisted tangle that she had hurriedly stuffed under a black head-scarf. Small black wisps of it escaped here and there, a few would seem slightly reddish when they caught the light. She was taller than most girls her age, she was as tall as the man who passed her the keys.<br/><br/>"Be careful now as your closin' up." He gave her a meaningful look. "You know what they have been saying... Where's your tag?"<br/><br/>"Oh." The girl put the keys in her apron, and rifled around until she produced a shinny silver-colored name tag and clipped it to the front of her blouse.<span style="font-style: italic">Rodge</span>. "I'll be careful as well." She rolled her eyes. The man smiled, put on his hat and coat, and left the eatery.<br/><br/>Rodge busied herself for a few moments, checking the condiment-levels, the grill and the rotisserie. She looked about, rubbing her aching knuckles, and approached her customer... Who was dressed as a flapper.<br/><br/>"Hello. I'm Rodge, taking over for Andros tonight. Are you liking everything, miss? Be sure to save room, we've got some great baklava, goes perfect with a coffee if you like." This woman was thin, she might be one who skipped desert, yet, it never hurt to ask. If Rodge sold of the rest of the Baklava to night Andros, her boss, would be pleased. He had promised to show her how to make the next batch.<br/><br/>Rodge, as she made eye contact with the blue-eyed woman, she suddenly felt...<span style="font-style: italic">anxious</span>. She didn't let it show on her face, keeping a small smile upon it. No,<span style="font-style: italic">anxious</span>wasn't the right word. What was it? Before her was a lovely woman, pale with the brightest blue eyes, she was small and unimposing visually... but Rodge felt<span style="font-style: italic">imposed</span>upon somehow.<span style="font-style: italic">Yet, imposed-upon</span>wasn't the right word either. Was it the<span style="font-style: italic">costume?</span>Yes, that must be it. Her outfit made her seem out of place.<br/><br/>Rodge smiled a bit wider. "So, are you going to a party tonight? Or are you in a show?"