I was working at the restaurant bar chatting up a couple of guests when I felt the brush of a shoe on the back of my heel. It was one of the new food runners trying to get my attention while my back was to her. She was letting me know that she was behind me with two plates destined for the guests in front of me. I did not know this food runner’s name, nor had I ever spoken to her.

In her hands were two orders of a dessert called the Warm Louisiana Buttercake, a twice-baked croissant bread pudding muffin with glazed apples, huckleberry compote, and vanilla bean ice cream. She couldn’t verbally alert me of her presence as it would’ve meant an unprofessional interruption. So, with full hands she discreetly tapped me with her foot.

In the restaurant business there is a system of communication referred to as call-back. When two service professionals need to exchange critical information about a guest one will speak, and afterward the other will repeat what was said. Often what is repeated is a shortened version of the original statement, or request, and is done so merely to acknowledge that what was shared has been understood.

An example of a call-back would be: Server #1 says, “I refilled water on table 10.” Server #2 says, “Thank you, water,” or “Thank you, 10.” Another example is: Server #1 asks, “Can you bring bread to 30?” Server #2 simply replies, “30.” Having worked in the service industry for almost 20 years the call-back system has become ingrained in my vocabulary and is second nature. So, naturally when I turned to let the food runner in and deliver the buttercake desserts to my bar guests I said, “Thank you, buttercake.”

Food runners are the lowest in the pecking order. They often do not last very long at this restaurant either from a lack of ability, or the stress associated with pressure to perform up to such high standards. New food runners are almost always quiet, nervous, and afraid of making a mistake. Rarely, if ever, do they make jokes while on the dining floor.

However, when the female food runner (I had yet to meet formally) that was standing behind me with two Warm Louisiana Buttercakes made me aware of her presence and immediate purpose, and I turned to let her in saying, “Thank you, buttercake,” I was both surprised and intrigued to hear her respond with, “You’re welcome, poopsie.”

It was both an effortless and courageous line. I completely lost my train of thought. I was now WONDERing about this woman. She flirted with me, right? Who was she? Where did she come from? Was there more of this wit and charm?

Obviously it had been a spontaneous exchange but I later learned that she had noticed me before that day and hoped to find a way to talk to me. To hear her tell it she spent several days stumbling around that restaurant bumping into walls, trying to put words together to speak to me whenever we were in the same room. She was hoping to ask me out. She had, for that moment at least, got me to notice her.

I was curious, but in all honesty somehow it didn’t register that this woman might actually be interested in me. Since my last girlfriend I had bounced around from flings to mistakes, and at that time was more mentally preoccupied with my nightly routine of whiskey and white drugs than with women.

It was a few days after she called me poopsie when I had just finished my shift and was heading down the stairs toward the exit. She just so happened to be at the bottom of the stairs about to head up. Seeing me in my street clothes obviously leaving for the night she saw an opportunity to talk to me before I left. However, she couldn’t organize her thoughts fast enough to speak in a full sentence. Instead she managed to blurt out an abrupt, “hey,” while simultaneously punching me in the gut. I stopped and acted like the blow was more than it was. She asked if I was going to the pub. Realizing that the punch was friendly and that she wanted me to go out with her for a drink, I said yes. It was the most important yes of my entire life.