Maid Cafe "It Really Was Saddam Hussein..."

I pressed my temples hard against the dizziness. My adorable wife's past career was inching closer and closer to the axis of evil with each passing day.

And beneath the Arabic nameplate.

A hastily made pink acrylic sign dangled and swayed.

KREEEEEK!! A heavy mechanical groan. The thick iron door, reminiscent of a bank vault, swung open.

"Uh...?"

The sight before my eyes. A bunker enclosed by concrete walls. Vast width and height like a domed stadium. And right in the center.

A jarringly out-of-place building stood there imposingly. Red brick. Pointed roof. Ornate decorations.

'A mansion...?'

It was a Western-style mansion straight out of a foreign drama.

She'd said she was making a cafe, but she'd gone and built an entire mansion. What kind of madness was this?

But the real madness hadn't ended yet.

A deafening mechanical chorus boomed. Along both sides of the red carpet. Hundreds of tiny golems bowed in unison. White frilly headpieces on their heads. Simple black long dresses on their bodies. Straight out of the internet or movies—authentic maid outfits.

"She made way too many... creepy little things."

This insane waste of capital and magic. All poured into making her one husband happy. It was absurd, but on the other hand, utterly lovable.

That was when it happened.

SQUEAK. At the end of the red carpet. The mansion's front door opened.

The 'head maid' had arrived.

"...Huh?"

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠let out a dumb exclamation.

Plod plod plod. A small silhouette approaching along the red carpet. My wife, Elma.

The problem was her outfit.

The hundreds of lined-up golems wore modest 'real maid outfits.' But the head maid Elma was different. Something you'd see in an adult shop. Vulgarly cute and lewd cosplay gear.

A plunging neckline fully exposing her heavy cleavage. Below that, a white apron and black miniskirt. With every step, the short skirt hem fluttered. Teasing glimpses of sky-blue striped panties straight out of an anime. And on her legs, tight black over-knee socks.

'She said she'd show me the real thing...'

She couldn't give up her desire to look pretty after all.

And yet.

Gulp. About 90cm tall. But packed with voluptuous curves. Like forcing adult cosplay onto a cute little porcelain doll. Maddeningly adorable. And a brain-boiling sense of taboo.

"W-Welcome, M-Master...!"

Elma stood before me, gripping her skirt hem with both hands. She curtsied demurely. Eyes downcast. Face flushed bright red.

"......"

Silence. The quiet stretched on.

Then Elma's shoulders twitched inward slightly.

Roll roll. Her almond eyes darted anxiously. She'd started gauging my reaction. She'd prepared so desperately, but no response...

"U-Um..."

Her tiny lips quivered. The backs of her hands gripping the skirt went pale.

"Wh-Why no words...!"

Shiver shiver. Her short legs trembled faintly. Tears welled in her eyes.

"You hate this stuff after all...?"

Her voice dripped with thick emotion.

"A freak like me doesn't suit a short skirt like thi—"

Swoosh. Instead of answering, I knelt down on one knee to meet her eye level. Gently cupped her small cheeks with both hands.

"No."

I packed my voice with sincerity.

"I nearly had a heart attack. Just catching my breath."

"Huh...?"

I stroked her flushed cheek with my thumb.

"The cutest, sexiest maid in the world."

"......!!"

WHOOSH! Elma's face ignited. Steam practically billowing from her ears. Her wide almond eyes. Embarrassment. Joy. Relief. A mix of emotions on her face.

She nuzzled her cheek into my hand. Then cleared her throat and lifted her chin proudly.

"Hmph! Of course!"

Her confidence skyrocketed. Chest puffed out.

"The great Elma Bronzebeer PhD, with your PhD degree!"

Short arms on hips, she shouted triumphantly.

"Calculated with rigorous analysis—the absolute territory skirt length! Of course you'd lose your mind!"

She'd picked up another weird internet meme. A genius professor invoking her PhD for skirt length. Even that eccentricity was endlessly lovable.

I chuckled and bowed my head. Leaned toward her heated lips.

The mood was perfect. Just as I went for a deep kiss.

Smack!

"Mmph?!"

Tiny, firm hands clamped over my mouth.

"No! Not yet!"

"Mmf?"

I mumbled questioningly through the blockade.

Elma shook her head firmly.

"Maid duties are 'service'! No private affection!"

"Pfft."

Service, huh. I smirked slyly. Gently grasped her wrist and whispered.

"What about bedroom service?"

"......!!"

Her shoulders jerked up.

"That's basic for a maid, right?"

"Th-That's...!"

Her face flushed again. Eyes wavered aimlessly. Hair ends twisted and spun.

"L-Later..."

Her voice trailed off meekly. Eyes down, mumbling.

"Tonight... I'll do it..."

This seductive little maid.

"Looking forward to it."

I burst out laughing and patted her small crown.

Elma led me inside. The space beyond the door.

"Whoa..."

I couldn't help but gasp.

A massive chandelier. Endless long table. Opulent interior. A banquet hall from a foreign film.

"Master. This way, please."

Elma lightly gripped her skirt and bowed.

As I approached the head seat, she circled behind the chair.

"Please, have a seat."

She was going to pull out the chair.

A massive, heavy solid wood chair.

"Hngh!"

Elma stretched her short arms. Gripped the back and pulled.

But her 90cm height. Against the heavy wood. No way the proportions matched.

"Nngh...!"

She braced her feet and strained.

Creak. The chair budged slightly. Then the balance tipped backward.

Wobble.

"Uh...?"

The chair started toppling toward Elma.

Thud! I lunged and grabbed the back, barely stopping it.

"You okay? That was close—you could've gotten hurt."

I sighed in relief.

"This thing looks super heavy. Don't get hurt; I'll handle it."

"No! Absolutely not!"

Smack. Elma swatted my hand. Her pride clearly wounded.

"Service is the maid's job! I told you I'd show you what a real maid is!"

"No, I'm just worried you'll get hurt. I can pull my own chair."

"Master stands still! This is maid work!"

The stubborn little maid insisted. She hiked up her skirt hem and clung determinedly again.

"If it's too hard, just call a golem or use some magic."

"Maids using magic?! A proper maid serves with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her own hands!"

Her oddly firm maid philosophy. Definitely picked up something weird online again.

"Nnghaah...!!"

Elma leaned in once more, short limbs quaking.

I finally chuckled.

Swoosh. Timed with her pull. I quietly hooked a hand under one side and gave a light tug.

Slide.

"Whew...!"

The chair glided out smoothly. Elma wiped her brow sweat, smug.

"Heh. See? Dwarves unbeatable at strength!"

"Sure is. Our head maid's got some real power."

I played it cool and sat. Elma's cheeks pinked with pride.

Once seated, meal prep began.

Elma snapped her fingers.

Snap! The kitchen door flew open. Tiny golems filed in towing trolleys. From appetizers to mains. Mountains of food. Way too gourmet for a maid cafe.

Truffle, caviar, lobster tartlets. Thick steak aromas assaulted my nose.

"Please, dine."

Elma personally lifted plates from the trolley.

"Copied the British royal head chef's brainwaves into the golems! Flavor guaranteed!"

"Did you get permission from th—"

My question was brushed off.

As she moved a plate.

"Ngh...!"

Problem again.

Her 90cm height. The table reached her head. Heavily piled plates wouldn't balance.

Shake shake. Short arms ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠trembled like aspen leaves. Sauce wobbled precariously. Her chest squished against the table edge.

First plate. Second plate.

"Need help?"

"Hus— No, Master stays put!"

Clink.

"N-Ngh...!"

Tip! The plate finally tilted off the table. Plunging toward the floor with Elma.

Thud. I thrust out my hand to catch it underneath.

"......"

Silence. Elma's tiny hands froze midair. Shoulders slumped.

"What is this...?"

Her small voice hit the floor.

"Can't even pull a chair alone, can't serve a plate properly..."

Shiver. Her little body began to tremble fragilely.

"Is this all I could show you...?"

Misery. Despair. Feeling like a burden to her husband. Because of her complex—her 'small height.'

"Elma. It's fine. The table's just ridiculously high."

I tried to soothe her, but no use.

Drip. Tears fell from her lowered head to the floor.

"Hic... sob... Why am I so small and useless...?"

Grief exploded. She burst into tears.

"Waaah! I wanted to do it all for you... Serve you cool like normal people...!"

She wailed loudly. Her almond eyes looking up at me were tear-soaked.

"Elma, it's okay. Huh? No person—no dwarf can do everything perfectly. You're a genius with your PhD! Serving's for part-timers..."

After desperate coaxing.

Her eyes suddenly shifted. From sorrow to rage.

"Ugh!!!"

Whoosh! A bizarre whoosh of air. Blue light surged. Sparks flew around Elma's body.

A sharp ozone smell tightening my lungs. The aftermath of high-level magic activation.

"Elma?!"

I shot to my feet instinctively.

Her pale barley twintails.

Shhhhr. They writhed grotesquely, then shot upward.

Hair split into strands. Dozens. No.

'How many exactly...!'

Hundreds of tentacles.

Far more than the abandoned mine expedition.

"No magic, you said!"

I yelled in shock. But the frenzied head maid's ears were deaf.

"Shut up! Whatever!"

Elma whipped the airborne tentacles wildly, shouting.

"Maids use magic in manga too! So what!"

Masterful pivot. And rationalization. Ditched her maid philosophy for manga logic.

'Real maid, my ass...'

I chuckled in disbelief. But ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠relief too. Escaping gloom so fast. The old her would've sulked underground for days.

I felt proud inside. Like it was thanks to me.

"Guts!"

Elma bellowed with spirit.