I had this nightmare last night.
Two older ladies (in their 60s) come into the shop. The are endowed with an air of entitlement. They order a dobos torte, to go. I put it in a box, take their money, and run off to my next task. When I later walk by the corner table, I see that they have sat themselves down. With their to-go box. At a dirty table. They have commited, in my mind, two of the biggest acts of rudeness possible in the shop, short of insulting someone. I stop at their table. Someone has given them a dish of white sauce. I say to them, "I'm sorry ladies, I didn't know that you were going to be eating here. Otherwise I would've gotten you some forks and water, and wiped off this table for you." One of them looks up at me: "The service here is terrible. Every time we come here one of you is rude to us. Steve was incredibly rude to us." Now, I don't know how they know Steve's name. But I'm pissed off. "Who made you that sauce?" "Steve did. But he had such an attitude about it."
That's it. I go off. "If you ladies keep having bad service here, maybe it has something to do with how you're treating your servers. Steve obviously went out of his way to make that for you, after you sat at a dirty table with a to-go box. As far as I'm concerned, you ladies can leave. I wil not tolerate you insulting my friends and my staff. You can go now. And I'm the manager, and I ask that you do not grace us with your presence ever again."
Then, in the kitchen, it's some sort of party, where everyone is trying out all the new toys for the new shop. I feel terrible. I know I shouldn't have yelled at those ladies. I know I shouldn't have kicked them out. I find Steve to tell him what I did. He says that he doesn't want to be involved. I went too far, he says. Leave me out of this. "But I defended you!" Someone is putting macaroons in this contraption that spits them through a tube and melts just the buttercream.
I start looking for Sarah. I know I have to tell someone about what I did before they call and complain. I have to explain my behavior. I don't have an excuse. I feel guilty. I run around for the rest of the dream, trying to confess my guilt.