After elbowing his way to the door, the last thing Johnny expects is to be stopped by the maitre d’. He wants to say something sarcastic, like, “Don’t you know who I am?” But because he suspects the answer to that will be “no,” he bites his tongue.
“Johnny Thomas,” he says, tapping the appointment book sitting open on the podium that blocks his entrance to the bistro. “Check it again. I have a reservation.”
The maitre d’ is only a few years older than Johnny, with a shock of short-cropped hair with pink tips that erupt from her scalp like fireworks. There’s a ring in her lip and another in her eyebrow, and a black and white striped rooster feather dangles behind her left ear like a padawan braid. Despite appearances, she manages to give him a look that suggests he’s the weird one here. “
