DHS

I worked the kitchen tonight. The restaurant was hopping, servers were sliding in and out with their arms full for hours on end. Around eight-forty, James leaned over me and whispered "She's here. C4."
I spun around and stuck my head out the door. The air was thick with grease, the room was full of people waiting for tables, but I spotted her from two rooms away. She had the big brown eyes, the slight limp, the requisite smirk.
I went back to the line and continued working, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. My skin was tingling. My first assignment for the DHS, and I had no idea how I'd pull it off. I'd been tossing around several possibilities since this morning when I got the message, written in frosting on a jelly donut. Jelly donut. Hmm.
I grabbed a handful of shredded carrots and the salads for C4. Using all the stealth I could muster in the middle of a fluorescent-lit kitchen, I spelled out the code in vegetable bits on a background of spicy cucumber yogurt salad dressing. I only hoped she would decipher it before her dinner date got his nosh on.
I sent the salads out with my most reliable runner and tried to relax. It was out of my hands now. All I could do was wait.
Lucky for me the rush continued and I was able to keep my mind busy with the ladling out of soup, traying orders and the fanboy discussion going on between the frycook and the kitchen expo.
I ducked out of the fray about an hour later to down a shot of whiskey and pineapple juice with my coworkers. She was headed for the door when I came around the corner. Our eyes met for a split second; a glimmer of recognition, a quick glance at my apron, a tiny smile in the corner of her mouth.
"How was your meal, Miss?" I asked in my best "customer service" voice.
"You misspelled my name." She said, flipped her hair, and pranced out the front door.
I slipped back into the kitchen, knowing we could all sleep soundly tonight, and complimenting myself on a job well done.