By Phaedra Letrou

A creative writing piece.

I wasn’t sure what irritated me most, the way the Maitre’d spoke to us or his general demeanor. He was wearing brown linen pants with a matching brown linen shirt, exuding a sense of bourgeois bohemian-ness that had spread throughout north London like the flu. His voice was forcefully deep, and his thin glasses vibrated as he asked us, “Do you have a reservation for this evening?”

By Cindy Mei

A creative writing piece.

The call came early, just after I had put the first batch of custard-filled pastry shells into the oven. For reasons unknown, a flutter of unease washed over me at the sharp, insistent ringing cutting through the quiet calm before customers arrived. We rarely got calls before opening hours, and early calls reminded me of the goodbyes that I wasn’t ready to face.