Page 4

Mason

I’ve been working at a coffee shop for too damn long.

That’s the only explanation for the fucking smell of pumpkin spice that just won’t go away. After I, er, took care of some private business when I got home, I showered, I changed the sheets, I even put on fresh cologne– Why do I still smell that cinnamon-and-nutmeg combo?

God, I need something better in life than this barista job.

At this point, I’d take just about anything else.

What could a washed-up model do for a living?

I regret not building up a useful skill set while I was jet-setting and getting paid for looking pretty.

Now I spend my days pouring java and my evenings filling out job applications, and the only things I get for my efforts are endless rejection emails.

And silence. Those sting the worst because it means they didn’t even think I was worth the minimal effort of a form letter.

Since I can’t locate the source of the spice, I give up and head to the kitchen for an early afternoon dinner.

After inhaling the sweet pumpkin spice flavor at work all day and now at home, I need something meaty and savory to combat that.

I’d like a nice, medium rare steak, but I’ll have to settle for cooking some frozen burger patties to slap on cheap store-brand buns.

Can’t afford steak on my salary, and the tips lately have been shit.

Even when I stoop to flirting with the female customers, who I have zero interest in, the jar stays frustratingly empty. As empty as my fridge now that I’ve cooked the last of the burgers. Guess I’ll have to go shopping at some point.

It’s a good thing I kept most of my sleek, modern furniture from “the before times.” Looking around at the upscale black decor, I shudder as I think about what my house would look like if I had to get my furniture from one of those big chain stores.

Although … Maybe I should get rid of it. Give up on the past.

Too much contemplation for one afternoon. I pour a glass of wine while the burger patty simmers on my countertop grill.

When dinner’s ready, I take my plate back to my room and turn on the TV to stream a movie. I’d eat in the living room, but as fancy as the setup is, I hate how empty it is in there with just me. At least the bedroom’s a bit smaller, cozier … less depressing.

I scroll through my one streaming service for a few minutes until I find a nice rom-com to watch while I eat. It’s one I’ve seen before, but sometimes those old familiar shows give me that little bit of comfort I need.

The pumpkin spice scent gets stronger again when I start eating. I take a few bites, wipe the mayo off my chin, lick my fingers … and boom! Spice.

What the hell?

A quick look confirms that I’m alone, and no, I haven’t made myself any coffee with dinner. Just me, my burger, and a glass of wine, none of which should smell so pumpkin-y.

I’m fucking losing it, I swear.

Once I finish the burger, I pause the movie to go rinse off my plate.

I come back with another glass of wine and a couple sleeping pills.

This is probably not the best combination, but I’ve got an early shift tomorrow—before dawn—so I have to knock out early, too.

I start the movie back up and wash my pills down with the whole glass in one fell swoop.

“You know, Jack,” I say to the pumpkin, which I’ve decided to name out of boredom, “I don’t even know why I’m watching this movie.

It’s about two people who fall sickeningly in love and live happily ever after.

I can’t even get a single date, let alone find a guy who’s willing to stick around with a deadbeat barista. ”

Jack, unsurprisingly, doesn’t answer.

“You’re right. I should’ve put on something less depressing. Like Schindler’s List or something.”

Jack doesn’t laugh. I guess he doesn’t appreciate my humor.

I continue my one-sided conversation with Jack throughout the movie, providing top-notch commentary on the film while Jack watches from the dresser. He may just be a pumpkin, but he’s a great listener. Doesn’t interrupt.

Then the climax hits, where the two lovebirds finally connect, and with me in the middle of my fourth glass of wine and half asleep thanks to the pills kicking in, I end up bawling uncontrollably.

Poor Jack probably thinks his new daddy’s a loser.

The movie ends, and I shut off the TV. I set my empty glass next to Jack and pat his smooth, firm skin.

“Well, Jack, I guess it’s bedtime for me. Gotta be up ass-early in the morning to go sling coffee.” I don’t know what gets into me—maybe the wine—but I also bend over to kiss Jack’s stem goodnight.

Does Jack taste like pumpkin spice?

I shake my head to clear it of the insanity and turn off the lights. Since it’s just me and Jack in here, I don’t bother with pajamas or boxers. I crawl under the covers and knock out.