The steam wand hisses. Pink Pony Club is playing. Won’t make my mama proud, it’s gonna cause a scene. I’m humming it without meaning to, the way that makes the shift speed by.
His hands tremble when he sets the cup down.
Not sloppy. Functional drunk. The kind that gets him into wool hoodies that cost more than my half of the rent, and he expects the world to bend. His manicure catches the light. Pale coral. Someone did that for him recently. The cuticles are still pushed back clean. There’s a ridge on the left thumbnail where the polish chipped and he’s been picking at it. Gold band. Someone waits for him.
“This isn’t what I ordered,” he says.
I don’t look at his face. I look at his hands. The register beeps twice behind me. Someone’s order ready, someone else’s problem. One finger taps the counter. Tap, tap, tap.
“Soy latte, extra shot, no foam,” I say. My voice is small. It always gets small.
“Single shot.” He leans in. His breath is whiskey and cinnamon gum. Covering it up. “I can taste the difference.”
He can’t. I made it right.
Mom’s voice, flat and certain: You think you’re so smart. The apartment door didn’t latch when I left this morning. She’ll be awake by now, the TV blaring some judge show, the smell of last night’s cheap wine still stuck to the couch cushions. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I already know what it says: Where the fuck are you? I don’t check. I know.
The letter opener is three feet away. Silver handle, tarnished from years of holding down receipts that won’t fit in the drawer. I’ve sketched ideas on the backs of the little scraps of paper during slow shifts. I’ve traced the edge of the opener with my thumb, never thinking of it as anything but dull. Now it’s the only thing in the room that makes sense.
I turn. My hand closes around the handle. It’s cold and heavier than it should be. And I turn back and his eye is right there and I have to adjust my grip because I’m shaking a little and then the point goes in and his mouth opens to say something else about what I got wrong and then it’s just blood and the sound of him falling and –
The cup is still in my hand. Warm through the waxy cardboard sleeve, through my palm. I tip it.
Dark liquid spreads across the wool. The smell of burnt espresso rises between us. Sharp, bitter.
Nothing moves.
Then I untie my apron. The strings are tangled. They always are. My fingers work at the knot. The cotton has gone soft from washing, the loop too tight the way it always gets. I pull it over my head and ball it up and set it on the counter.
“I’m done,” I say. Too quiet. I don’t say it again.
Somewhere behind me, one person claps. Then stops. The silence after is louder.
He’s still looking at himself. At the spreading stain. His mouth opens.
“You’re going to –” He stops. Starts again. “You have no idea. I’ll have your –” His hand comes up and he’s pointing at me now, finger shaking a little, and the sentence doesn’t finish.
I’m already walking. Past the espresso machine. My shoes squeak on the tile. That specific squeak that hurts my teeth and I’ve been trying to shut it out for six months. My feet slow. I keep going. Past the pastry case at my left shoulder. Chappell Roan finishes up.
I can’t find my bag. I check the wrong locker twice. The third one is mine. I stand there for a second with the strap in my hand before I remember I’m leaving.
The alley. The brick is red and wet-looking in the sun. I sit on the curb with my phone and pull up my portfolio. The logos are there. Geometric, clean, mine. Each one built in the hours after Mom passed out, when things were finally quiet enough to think. My thumb swipes them away. I’m looking for a job listing.
“Barista Wanted.” I laugh. The sound comes out wrong.
My hands are shaking. When did that start?
I tell myself it’s adrenaline. I tell myself it’s victory. I know what it is, and I won’t look at it. The rent is due on the fifteenth. She’ll be waiting at home, the chain lock unhooked so I can’t pretend I’m not there. The couch still smells like her last bender. I’ll sleep on the floor.
There are seventeen coffee shops in the city, and in seventeen coffee shops there will be another asshole in another expensive thing, waiting for me to fail in exactly the right way.
I open Indeed.
I’ll keep on dancing.
