Monday, April 1

“Are you fucking kidding me,” I struggle not to yell as Lucifer tells me the worst possible news.  

“Yeah, Emily can’t come in today, so since you’re here, I’m going to need you to work a double.”

It’s finally getting to the end of my shift. The excitement of seeing Angel, despite my still having a little cold, gives me some pep in my step. I must’ve made my happiness too obvious, so she decided to ruin my day. 

“You can’t do that!”

“In the state of North Carolina, I sure can. And it’s not like it’s going to be busy today.”

Fuckkkkkk, she’s right, and she just jinxed us. The longer I look, the more I wanna punch her snaggletooth grin. Before I can make the next shift worse for myself, I walk away without another word. I quickly check on my remaining table, and they’re actually about to leave. Perfect. 

Zipping over to the laminated section map, I write next to my name in bold letters: ON BREAK FROM 2:15-3:00.

It’s just turning 1:50, so it’ll give me enough time to inform the evening shift before Lucifer can spin her tales. 

“Keke!” I see Ger frown from the corner of my eye and simply pout at the unspoken question. 

“Emily’s out. I’m being forced to cover.”

“I’m so sorry, babycakes,” she says with a pat on my shoulder. “Wait, but what about the…”

I guess the welling in my eyes says enough.

“You told him yet?”

As if summoned, I feel a buzz in my apron. 

“No, I'm going on break soon. I'll t-tell him then.”

“This is some bull.”

“Who you telling?”

When my final guests finally leave, I clear the table as fast as I can because the tears will only hold off for so long. 

Usually, I have a ditzy and pleasant air about me at work, but right now I’m so mad I slam my way into the kitchen. 

“Uh, oh. Your face is twisted and ugly. What did Lucifer do,” my favorite German line cook asks. 

“Jordy!” 

“Sorry. What is wrong, my beautiful African goddess,” the tall, middle-aged brunette corrects himself, but that is not exactly what I was going for. (He spent way too much time around black men when he first moved to the States, and this is one of the coached responses.)

Knowing he won’t be able to hear me past the window, I stop and meet his hazel eyes. 

“I’m tired. I’m still sick. And now that bitch is making me work the full day,” I whine. My honorary lightskin king nods sympathetically. 

“I got you, bärchen. Any requests?”

“I don’t know! I'm so frustrated I can’t think.”

“Ah! Fine, you get a surprise. No complaints.”

“…Danke, Onk!”

By the time I finished sorting dishes, washing my hands, and switching out condiments, it was three minutes until my break. Close enough.

“I’m going on break,” I whisper to my coworkers as I pass by.

My food is waiting in the window in a box, my water bottle waiting to the side, and I’m out the door to our outdoor picnic table.

I take out my phone, nearly dropping it when I see his caller id lighting up the screen.

“Hey, Keisha,” Angel greets excitedly. I can hear the warmth in his voice, and I want so badly to know what it felt like in person one last time. 

“Hi…”

“You finally done with your shift? I just got to the coffee shop.”

The tears came out freely, and I didn’t bother to hide the sound of my crying.

“Princess, you’re still coming, right?”

“I can’t,” I sob. “My stupid fucking manager is making cover for someone. I’m on break now. I'm so fucking sorry, Dee!”

I’m blubbering to the fullest extent, shoulders shaking, hyperventilating, snotting and all.

“Let me see your face, Keisha.”

“No!” The sound of me blowing my nose is New Orleans trumpeter-worthy. 

“Can you at least eat while I’m on the phone?”

“Fine.” Forcing the box open, I see a chicken pot pie (our Tuesday special) and garlic-buttered biscuits. The tears make everything saltier, but it tastes good regardless. 

I feel like one of those toddlers calming from a rampage—still gasping for breath, not quite fit for company. 

“Do you still want to meet later? We don’t have to do anything-“

“You’re supposed to hit the road before it gets dark,” I croak.

“And we were supposed to see each other before I go back home.”

“Maybe we’re not supposed to meet again,” I can’t help but murmur.

“Do you honestly think that?”

“I don’t know, but that stupid hag jinxed us, and I know I’m going to feel like crap by the time the day’s over.”

“…Ok.”

I know I just told him to stop trying, but I’m still hurt that he does. 

“I really enjoyed getting to know you, Angel.”

“Me too, princess.”

There was nothing to say afterward, and we mutually agreed to end the call, our goodbyes sounding miserable as hell. Usually delicious, my pot pie didn’t taste like anything as I continued eating. I still had fifteen minutes left when I forced myself to swallow most of the pie. Yet, my worries became true.

“Keke, break’s over,” the cunt calls out to me from the backdoor.

“According to restaurant policy, I’m entitled to forty-five to sixty-minute breaks if I work more than five consecutive hours.”

“State law, which only gives you thirty, trumps today. We just got a call about a bus of students coming our way. So get your ass up and start preparing your tables.”

If it was high school students, I would’ve been fine…but it was middle school students heading to a soccer training camp for spring break. 

The number of spills, horseplay-induced broken dishes, and body odors made my head spin. I eventually realized my illness was just coming back with a vengeance because of the sudden stress. My coughing and nausea escalated to me donning a mask.

Many jokes were thrown my way by weeaboo preteens, the worst one being a smack to my ass because I remind the kid of his “older brother’s body pillow.” It took everything in me not to beat the boy upside the head, but his friend thankfully did it for me and apologized on his behalf. The cherry on top was that while they all—twenty-five—paid for their meals, they didn’t tip. And I can't even be mad because it's not like they have jobs.

As soon as they were out the door, I went to the bathroom, washed my hands, and stuck two fingers down my throat. Just like magic, my lunch appeared in the toilet bowl. 

I quickly texted Ger to send Lucifer my way, and less than a minute later, she busted open my stall door.

“I thew up,” I say with my best lisp, pointing to the evidence. “I go home.”

Flushing, I stumble to my feet. She still won’t budge, so I lean in like I can help it, stage-whispering so all my hot, bile breath wafted up her nose: “I’m sorry. Text you when it stops.”

If looks could kill, her glare in the mirror as I washed my hands would’ve made me spontaneously combust. But it doesn’t. I continue my partial act of being dizzy and stumble to the employee closet for my stuff. 

I barely wave at Ger as I leave, hurrying out the back door as I feel another wave come on. I leave a little present in the bushes and try to swish water in my mouth to help before it gets overwhelming. The gum in my center console helps, but the driving nearly cancels it out. 

Arriving home brings another set of battles. Junior sits on the couch, face scrunched up like someone shit in his boots. When I reached my room, I finally realized why. 

“Junior, stop trying to break into my stuff!”

The lock on my safe had been tampered with unsuccessfully but tampered with nonetheless.

“Then let me borrow some money!”

“No. You never return it. Granddaddy always says you don’t let people borrow what you aren’t willing to lose, and frankly, I can’t afford to lose much right now!”

“You’re such a bitch, I just need a hundred,” he yells, appearing in my doorway. 

“No! I bet you ate the food I made for myself today and that you’d spend the money at the ABC store.”

Seeing how flustered he was, I knew I was right.

“Oh my god. You are such a uuuuuuuugghhhh.” I don’t dare finish the thought, leaving without taking anything off. 

“Where are you going?”

“To the store. I’m still sick and I need food since your greedy ass ate my meal prep.”