Breath 6

After a short break for the evening, Tom returned to restaurant

pulsating with life—laughter and conversation colliding

with the rhythmic clatter of silverware against the ceramic plate

and the soothing Thai music.

Tom weaved swiftly through tightly packed tables,

his white shirt damp with sweat, the weight of the evening pressing down on him.

He had memorized the steps: take orders, deliver food, clear plates, repeat. No mistakes.

At Table Seven, an Indian man and his wife sat in stony silence.

The man glared at the dish in front of him,

his fingers absentmindedly grazing the gold bangles on his wife’s wrist.

A carved potato rose floated in his green curry.

His jaw tightened.

He hate those carved roses.

Why do they put these on the food?

Such a waste of potatoes.

He raised his pinky, plucked the potato from the broth,

and upon spotting Tom, he signaled him over.

Tom approached with a practiced smile,

but before he could speak, the man held up the potato like it was an offensive relic.

"What's this?" he asked, voice clipped.

Tom barely spared the garnish a glance.

"Oh, just a carved potato. Makes the dish look nice. The chef’s mom

spends the whole day carving those little treasures. But if

you’re not into it, you can just set it aside."

The man's frown deepened.

"That’s not what I meant. I ordered Green Curry."

A slow blink.

Tom felt the irritation building behind his tired eyes.

"Sir… that is Green Curry."

The man leaned forward, his voice sharpening.

"Where? I don’t see any Green Curry on the table."

A beat.

The wife finally spoke, placing her spoon down with an air of quiet disappointment.

"What’s your name again?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Tom, ma’am."

Her voice softened, but her eyes remained cold.

"Look, Tom… I don’t want to be rude, but this is not Green Curry. We’re disappointed."

Tom gripped his tray a little tighter. "But… it’s green?"

"We’re not colorblind," the husband snapped.

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose.

"Can I speak to your manager? I’ve had enough of this.

You're being rude, Tommy. This is not how you treat a paying customer."

He slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the silverware.

"And where is our Jasmine tea?"

Tom took a slow breath, forcing down the urge to react.

"I'll get that right away," he said, turning—

"Your boss?" the wife interrupted, one brow arched in challenge.

Tom stopped mid-step.

Then, without missing a beat, he turned back to them.

Expression unreadable.

"Sir, I believe my waiter mentioned there was an issue with the Green Curry?"

The Indian man’s spine stiffened.

His wife’s fork clattered against her plate.

He blinked, his mouth opening slightly—processing what just happened.

"Is this a joke?" His voice dropped to a near whisper.

"I want to speak to someone in charge."

Tom gave him a polite, measured smile.

"Sir, I am in charge. The only one working tonight.

That makes me the guy who can solve this curry situation."

A tense silence stretched between them.

Then—

SPLASH.

The wine hit Tom’s face.

Gasps rippled through the restaurant, but no one intervened.

A few heads turned, then quickly looked away.

The Indian man set his glass down with finality.

"I’m not paying for this garbage. Take it away."

He gestured toward the bowl with disgust.

"And bring me a real Green Curry. Fast."

And then—

The entrance swung open.

A heavy thud of boots against tile.

Six immigration agents strode in, uniforms crisp,

hands resting near their belts. They took a table nearby.

Tom froze.

Across the table, the Indian wife’s breath hitched.

She leaned toward him, her voice a shaky whisper.

"They’re Immigration, aren’t they?"

Tom’s gaze flickered toward the agents.

He could feel the weight of them in the room,

even without looking directly.

"They were here last week," he murmured.

"I don’t know if tonight’s a new raid or if they’re just here to eat."

The Indian man’s fingers dug into the edge of the table,

his knuckles white.

His chest rose and fell too fast, his breath sharp.

He turned to Tom, voice low, trembling.

"I don’t have—"

Tom gently placed a hand over his.

A silent message passed between them.

"You don’t have a Green Curry,"

Tom said smoothly.

His voice barely above a whisper.

"You’re right. I messed up. Let me fix this. But for now… stay calm.

When things heats up, calmness cool things down."

A long pause.

Then, a slow, shaky nod.

Tom took a step back, turning toward the kitchen—toward the agents.

——————————————————————————————-

Tom approached their table, forcing a neutral expression onto his face.

He handed them the menus, pretending his heart wasn’t slamming against his ribs.

"Evening, gentlemen. What can I get you?"

Eyes on Nick.

He seems different tonight.

Tom tried to forget their encounter last week.

He shouldn’t know that…last week, I felt something.

Nick, smirked at him.

"What’s with the wine stain? Looks like someone had a rough night."

Before Tom could respond, a hand slid under the table.

A squeeze.

Nick’s fingers gripped his ass.

Tom flinched, his stomach twisting.

Nick chuckled, withdrawing his hand.

"Just a wine situation," Tom said, voice tight.

"But how about the usual? Thai beer? Pad Thai for everyone?"

Nick leaned in again, but this time, his hand slid up Tom’s inner thigh.

It stopped just before—

"Tommy, we’ve got two new guys tonight,"

he murmured, nodding toward the fresh-faced agents beside him. "Drew and Bob."

Drew smirked. "Any new hires? Maybe an illegal Thai dishwasher?"

Tom’s stomach clenched.

"It’s just me and the owner tonight."

"And she’s from Thailand?" one of them asked.

"Yes. She’s Thai-American."

Bob raised an eyebrow. "And you?"

Nick cut in smoothly, sensing Tom’s discomfort.

"How about we start with the beers?" he said lazily.

"And that crispy noodle dish I liked last time—Mee Krob, right?"

Tom nodded quickly and hurried away.

The moment he was out of earshot,

Nick turned back to the others, his expression darkening.

"What the hell is wrong with you guys? You trying to scare him?"

The first agent smirked. "He’s illegal. I can smell it."

Bob scoffed. "Did you see his shoes? Cheap knock-offs. Dead giveaway."

Nick’s jaw tightened.

"Ohhh…" The first agent chuckled. "I see what’s going on."

He grinned mockingly.

"Somebody found a boyfriend.

Sweet Nicky, sitting in a tree… K-I-S-S-I—"

A sharp thud.

Nick slammed his fist onto the table.

Drew held up his hands. "Whoa, man. Take it easy."

He paused. "But seriously… why are you protecting him?"

Nick’s gaze flicked toward the kitchen, where Tom had disappeared.

A long, heavy silence.

Then, finally—

"Because he’s bringing our fucking Mee Krob."