Page 4 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

Chills run up my spine. My tongue feels thick in my mouth, and this feeling… I’ve felt it before, and I hate it.

Men like thatdon’teat like this. I don’t say anything, not that I could. No, instead, I silently deposit the plates in front of him. But my eyes water as soon as I turn and walk away.

I hate that. I hate everything about it. The long-held ache in my chest cracks open again. I want to sit next to him, and hug him, and tell him everything’s going to be okay. But it would be a lie. I don’t know anything. Least of all, if things will be okay. Hell, if anything, I’ve learned the opposite. Just when things couldn’t possibly get worse, there was always a way.

This place, Eddie’s, feels especially like purgatory tonight. There’s a group of degenerate-looking gamblers in a corner booth. Missionaries at another. Several low-life-looking tables. But far and away, most tables are just lonely-looking souls. Too many to count.

My hands turn clammy, and I rub them against the skirt of my uniform.

“God, could Table 19 beanyhotter?” Roni whispers, coming to stand beside me while I roll silverware into paper napkins.

Nodding but not saying anything, I keep rolling away, swallowing against the tight feeling in my throat.

This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t care. I don’t even know him. If this was any other person, would I care?Or is this just because he’s pretty?Alright, I would care, but I probably care more because he is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful humans I’ve ever encountered.

“Have you ever thought about…not doing this anymore? L-like life, I mean? Do you ever just want to give up?” I ask her quietly.

It’s silent between us, aside from the sound of silverware clanking against the laminate counter and The Supremes singing in the background.

After some consideration, Roni finally says, “Sure. I mean, look around, Em. This is our life. It’s not exactly any better outside this shithole either…” The truth reverberates and hits me deep in the chest.

Hopelessness, I know. Despair, also yes. But could I really give it up?I don’t know.And if I’m being honest, it’s probably because I’m too cowardly to do anything about it. There isn’t any nobility in me choosing to live. But to leave on your own terms? That’s fucking brave.

“Alright, hun, time to go home,” Dina rasp-yells across the breakfast bar top. My shoulders droop. I’m not ready to leave. I’m never ready to leave, but especially today. There’s a tug, quietly asking me to stay. But that’s nothing new, really.

“Can I please stay through the morning rush, please?” I ask Dina, just shy of begging. My hands actually clasp together as if in prayer. I know my shift is the night shift, but it’s undoubtedlythe shitiest shift. The worst tippers. The most drunks. The morning rush is solid, though. People heading to work, old people, young people. Families.

Sometimes, if Dina is nursing a hangover, she’ll let me stay…but not today.

She shakes her head and says, “No dice, sweetheart.” I hate that she calls everyone a nickname like it’s endearing. Honestly, I think she does it because she can’t remember our names.

I give a fake smile to Roni, who shrugs sympathetically.

Without thinking twice, I plate a piece of cherry pie, write a quick note on Table 19’s check, then set the pie in front of him as I clear his empty plates.

“I didn’t –” he starts to tell me he didn’t order the slice of cherry pie. I shrug and drop his check on the table.

Feather-light so no one else can hear, I say, “Life is short.” I give him a soft smile, and without waiting for him to read the check or even respond, I walk toward the back to dump his dishes. I’m slightly embarrassed by my presumptive thoughts, but if there’s anything that years at Eddie’s have taught me, it’s to leave my shame behind. So I drop it, along with my cares, and head for the back office.

When I cash out, I count my tips to discover I nearly worked at a loss after buying Table 19’s meal.But it was worth it, I hope.

Then, opting not to do my closing work as a little “F you” to Dina, I head towards the back parking lot. Elvis singing, “Only fools rush in,” gets cut off as the heavy back door closes, sealing the sound in and me out. In its place, a bird chirps into the freshly risen sun. The brisk morning air cuts through my thin uniform, and I shiver as I walk toward my old Honda.

“Hey,” a deep voice startles me.

“Holyfirkingshirtballs!” I clutch a hand to my chest with alarm. Getting caught, alone, with a man in the back parking lot is one of my worst nightmares.

“I wanted to give you your pen back.” He extends a brawny arm covered in a baby-soft, long-sleeved sweater. “And you didn’t need to pay for my meal.” The pen is sandwiched between a couple hundred-dollar bills.

My cheeks feel hot, likely red now. “I wanted to,” I say quietly and timidly because: big man, small-ish girl, creepy parking lot.

He thrusts his arm towards me again, but I stand there unmoving. A part of me wants to cry, standing in the early morning sun across from him.Will I be the last one to see him like this?

I wonder because, truthfully, what a shame. His sandy-colored hair, a shade darker than mine, is backlit in the first rays of sunlight. His high cheekbones are painted pink above his neatly trimmed beard, like he’s been standing out in the cold waiting for me.Beautiful, I decide.

“Please, take it,” he pleads.

“I can’t accept.”Idiot. I should accept. I should take the money — what looks like four hundred dollars — because I’m broke, and crudely enough, he doesn’t need it where he’s going.