The squeaking of stainless steel hitting Styrofoam. Like nails on a chalkboard. And the moment he heard it, he knew his day was finished. He didn’t even need to see the bride’s inevitable meltdown.
Freddie blamed his subconscious. It was rebelling, tired of taking abuse from the overprivileged. How else could he explain it? He’d been with the seaside resort for nearly sixteen years, banquet captain for four.
He knew faux wedding cakes always had a real slice for the happy couple to cut. And he knew that slice needed to be front and center.
This time he just… forgot.
The Weekday One Hundred 