Her Eyes Didn’t Meet Yours

Flash Fiction By Steve Saulsbury

Betty was eating in the walk-in again. Sitting on a 5-gallon bucket of pickles, next to a platter of leftover salads.

The reception was over, the staff relieved, breathing more naturally. Soon, it would be time to break down the tables and chairs. The head table for the bride and groom and other members of the wedding party. And all the eight top rounds.

One of the busboys was squatting, picking pieces of a broken tumbler from the carpet.

“Get a broom!” our manager hollered.

I worked for the banquet staff, a diverse bunch. Clucking waitresses, jiving bus boys, Greek cooks.

And Betty.

“Why is she eating in there?” Kelly, my waitress friend,hissed.

I shrugged.

Betty was older than everyone, a not unattractive woman. But you could tell something was wrong with her. Her eyes didn’t meet yours. When she spoke, a low puff of words escaped from the corner of her mouth. Like someone trying not to blow cigarette smoke in your face.

Her hair was a little brassy, makeup a little heavy. Betty served with ease, though, absently carrying three plates at a time. Skills ingrained from years on the circuit in northern Baltimore. 

I glanced at her as I passed with a bus pan of dirty dishware. Her black uniform blended into the shadows. A glint of fork raised to her mouth. She stared at an unused tray of chocolate mousse, gone gummy. 

A flicker of empathy. How many times had Kelly and I laughed at Betty? Her disengaged manner. How she once dumped some perfectly good pie in the trash, bitter towards the wasteful guests. How her panty hose drooped a little, and a slice was cut out of her shoe to accommodate a bunion.

Back through the kitchen, still cleaning up, I saw a red splash on the floor, an overlooked spill. Maraschino cherry juice. Like fake blood in a horror movie.

“Somebody left a mess,” I grumbled.

“Betty,” Kelly laughed, rolling her eyes. She was collecting tablecloths. “Is she still in the walk-in?”

“Yeah. Weird.”

Another waitress overheard us. “Stop talking about her.”

“What?” I said, haltingly. Something in her tone

My earlier empathy was already gone. Kelly and I had been about to start joking again.

“Her boys,” the waitress whispered, “were the ones that did all that killing in South Carolina last year. And raped a woman. Don’t y’all know anything?”

Kelly said, “I think . . .”

We had heard some rumors about bloodshed. Yet, they didn’t seem real.

I stared at the cherry juice. Must have been one of the bartenders. Not Betty.

But she was the one doing time in solitary.

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Bio: Steve Saulsbury became intrigued with flash fiction while studying at Washington College. Since 2020, his work has appeared in many online journals and several printed collections, including the 2024 London Independent Story Anthology. He lives on Maryland’s Eastern Shore with a crazy German Shepherd and some tolerant cats.

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