Shady Sunday Morning

"Hey," Komura scrutinized a soybean between her fingers. "Why do you think edamame is so expensive?"

I shrugged.  She was the one who ordered it, after all.

"Dunno."  I reached for one.  She slapped my hand before I could reach the bowl.

"They'll charge us," she said.

"But you already ordered them," I said.  Leaning back into my corner.

"Excuse me!" She flagged down a waitress.  "We didn't order these."

She dropped the one she was playing with back into the bowl and handed it to her.  The waitress apologized and scurried off.

"What the hell was that?"

She held up a finger.  She leaned out of her seat to watch the waitress run off towards the kitchen.  Turning around would've been too obvious, so I was stuck with nothing to go on but what she said.

"She's talking to the manager," she muttered.  She leaned further to get a better look.  "They're checking the orders."

She jumped back into place and folded her hands in front of her.  The waittress came back to us with the bowl.

"According to the order, miss, you did order it."  She turned the slip over for Komura to inspect.

"Oh, right," she said, waving it off.  She went for her tea.  "My boyfriend must've gotten it when I was in the restroom.  Sorry about that."

I wasn't her boyfriend.  And she didn't go to the restroom since we got here.  The "Sorry about that" was dragged out and sarcastic.

"Did you write that down?"  She asked as soon as the waitress left again.

"Write what down?" I was just doodling on the notepad she gave me earlier.

"What they did after we sent it back," she said.

"After you sent it back."

"You didn't stop me," she shrugged.  She motioned for me to write.

I sighed, then turned the notepad over for Komura to inspect.

"Mm, get the name of this place after we leave."  She took a sip.

"Anyway, like I was saying," she put her cup down.  "Edamame comes in bags at a dollar each."

She picked up the bowl by the rim.  It would've fit in her palm if she picked it up like a normal person.

"How much do you think is in this?"  She was inspecting the bowl from the bottom.

"Twenty?"  I shrugged.

She counted.  "Twelve."

"A 99 cent bag could hold five or six of these bowls," she said, unshelling one.  "They're overcooked."

She pulled a menu from the condiment tray.

"$2.25 for this bowl," she said.  "$2.25 times five or six is...eleven, thirteen dollars.  99 cents a bag, that's ten dollars profit each."

"Mm," I said, doodling.

She pointed to the tables behind me, counting something.

"Three."

I wrote that down, just to be safe.

"Three tables out of twelve ordered it."  She made a face.  "Did you write that down?"

I span the notebook around for a second.

"Why would you charge so much for this?"  She ate another one.  Her face said they were still overcooked.  "No effort in making them, cheap ingredients."

She tapped the table.

"I think it's because it's bothersome."  She sat up straight and pointed at nothing in particular.  "That's why they charge so much."

"Uh-huh."  Did the wings on a pegasus go on their back, like angel wings?  Or was it on their thighs?  There wouldn't be anywhere to sit if the wings were on their backs.  I gave up and just made it a normal horse.

"If somebody came to my restaurant, looked through my menu," she pulled out a menu and pretended she was wearing glasses.  "'Oh, everything looks great, but I think I'll have the cheap appetizer that takes absolutely no effort whatsoever.'"  She dropped the menu.  "I'm here, all day, pouring love into everything I serve you, and that's what you go for?"

She poked at her cheek and feigned a valley girl voice.  "'Oh, did you have anything that wasn't so much fish?  Everything's so like, fishy.'"  She leaned to the other side to talk to herself.  "I know right?  Ohmigod, edamame.  I love edamame!'"  She made a point of mispronouncing it.

"They won't touch the ginger, but they'll finish the edamame," she said, staring at the bar.  A soccer game was on the TV behind it.  "What are you drawing anyway?"

"I'm a cowboy," I said, turning the notepad around.  She glanced at it, then went back to watching the space between the chef and the TV.

"Excuse me," she flagged the waittress down again as she passed.  "These are overcooked."