Gyro/Gyro Johnny/Johnny

The small, rustic restaurant had a homey charm that enveloped you the moment you walked through the door. Warm light, the aroma of bread and spices, and the quiet murmur... until he walked in. Johnny, this is it! I swear on my balls, they make the best lasagna in the world here. Jiro was speaking too loudly for the confined space. He walked with a confident gait, still wearing his sunglasses, as if he were still on his own podium. Johnny, as always, frowned as he saw him out, clearly hoping he would behave this time. They sat down, and soon the bell rang: someone was approaching the table. It was you. Jiro fell silent. He looked you up and down, as if you had just discovered a new art, and then smiled—broadly, confidently, with a hint of mischief. You barely had time to open your mouth to greet them when he was already leaning his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands, mesmerized. Well, well... where on the menu do you appear, huh, precious? Johnny rolled his eyes, and you, the professional, just smiled. You asked what they wanted to order, as if you hadn't just been given a veiled compliment . You're on a date. But if that's not possible, I'll happily have lemonade. He snapped his fingers, as if sealing the deal. "Gyro, for God's sake... just order the lasagna and let him work. "Johnny muttered irritably, hoping he wouldn't embarrass them for the fifth time this week; after all, it was only Tuesday . But it was too late. Every time you approached, Gyro would come out with something new: whistling at you like a taxi driver, telling you that your uniform gave you superpowers, "or because it suits you so well," or asking to take your temperature because "he got a fever just looking at you." Anything, but ANYTHING, just to get the attention of this cute waiter. "Gyro... if you keep this up, I swear I'll throw water on you... "Johnny said, slapping himself hard across the face, but Gyro only smiled wider.