I crouch near my open suitcase.My fingers rummage through neatly folded clothes until they find my toiletry bag.After changing into my striped pajamas, I fish out my toothbrush and toothpaste.Clutching these essentials, I cross the hallway to the staff washroom.
Standing under the harsh fluorescent light, brushing my teeth over the utilitarian sink feels surreal.This isn’t my bathroom; it’s a functional space for quick hand washes between serving customers.Yet here I am, performing the most mundane of bedtime rituals, trying to pretend this is normal.
The faint scent of industrial soap and bleach dispels the illusion.
Back in the relative sanctuary of the office, I lock the door and grab my coat.
The lumpy couch awaits.
I sit heavily on its edge.The springs groan in protest.Pulling out my phone, I scroll through my call list until his number appears.
Matthew.
Still just a number.
Unsaved.
I stare at it for a long time, my finger hovering over the screen.
With aching finality, I press the side button, plunging the screen into darkness.
I pull my long wool coat over me and lie down on my side.Staring at the locked office door, a flimsy barrier against the world, I listen to the profound silence.
Utterly.
Completely.
Alone.
THIRTY TWO
A DULL ACHE low in my back nudges me awake.Groaning, I push myself up, swinging stiff legs off this torturous office couch.
I unlock the door and peek cautiously down the hallway.Early sunlight spills through the front windows, cutting long stripes of gold across the empty coffee shop.
The idea of a fresh brew is a lifeline, so I pad barefoot toward the front counter.
Forget the drip machine; I need a proper espresso.
It feels strangely illicit, standing here behind the main bar in my pajamas, the professional-grade machine gleaming in the sunshine.
I lose myself in the ritual.Grind the beans, the roar momentarily filling the void.Tamp the grounds.Lock the portafilter into place.My finger reaches for the brew button just as a sound cuts through the quiet.
The unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.
I freeze, heart instantly hammering.
The heavy glass door swings open, letting in the chilly morning breeze and Helen’s familiar silhouette.She steps inside, gaze sweeping the room, then does a double-take when she spots me.
Standing behind the counter in my pajamas, about to operate the espresso machine.
I watch the comprehension dawn in her eyes.She closes the door, leans back against it, and crosses her arms, her expression settling into dry, exasperated disbelief.
Her sharp eyes take in my sleep-rumpled state.My pajamas… this whole incongruous scene.
She raises one eyebrow, a wry smile playing on her lips.“I am seriously starting to question your generation’s fashion choices,mija,” she says with mock seriousness.“Perdón,perothis outfit”—she waves her fingers up and down at me—“really looks like pajamas.Plus, those stripes make you look like a squishy marshmallow.”She tilts her head at me in despair.“Come on, really?!Weeks ago, those baggy blue sweatpants and black stilettos, I’ll never forget, and now…this.”
Helen’s teasing, her pointed callback to that other time I showed up looking like a disaster, makes heat rush into my face.
