The deer woman looked down at her salad, an entrée version of a Caesar with grilled chicken. The presentation was lovely, as expected in such a fine restaurant, but: “There’s no chicken.”
Her young wolf waiter paused and turned back. “Ma’am?”
“There’s no chicken,” Silvie repeated, locking eyes with him. She was tall, beautiful, and intimidatingly severe.
“Y-you’re a deer.”
She kept her deep brown eyes on him, remaining silent.
“The kitchen staff, uh, thought that…you would…” He cleared his throat.
Her ear flicked, gold hoop earrings jangling. “Did they.”
He reached for the plate. “I’ll, uh, take this—”
“No. Don’t bother.” She raised a hand and snapped her hoof-capped fingers. Her salad rustled as a half-dozen shrunken chefs and line cooks tumbled out of thin air to fall amidst the romaine, croutons and shaved Parmesan.
Her waiter gaped, ears flattening.
Silvie took a sip of wine, ignoring the frantic screams rising from her salad dish. As the wolf backed away, she grabbed his wrist and pulled. He found himself dangled between her thumb and forefinger. “They forgot the chicken.” She calmly poured olive oil and a splash of balsamic vinegar into a small dish on the table with her free hand, and swished him through it before lifting him toward her muzzle. “You forgot my bread.”
© 2024 Arilin Thorferra