“Order up!” The words died on their way out the chef’s throat.
“Long night?” A busboy asked as he dropped dishes in the sink.
“Long double shift.” The chef leaned against the counter and sighed.
“Obviously,” the waitress scoffed, fists on her hips and eyebrow cocked.
“What now?” The chef’s pipes resurrected for this single bark.
“These now!” She waved at the eight covers. “There’s no one left!”
The chef pushed off the counter and walked into the empty restaurant. He whistled and the cooks, washers-up and busboys hurried to meet him at the table.
“See? Party of eight!”
This is a drabble for this prompt.