Chatter, the espresso machine’s sigh and pump, the clink of cups.
The sound is amplified, grating on my nerves.
Even the bright sunlight streaming in seems accusatory.
Plastering on a smile so brittle it feels like it might crack, I head toward the front counter.Grace catches my eye as I pass the register lineup, her brow furrowed with unspoken questions.I give a tight, brief nod, pretending I didn’t see the depth of her concern, and keep moving.
Need to seem busy.
Need to blend in.
Wiping down the counter feels like moving underwater.My hands perform the familiar motions, but my mind is trapped in the echo of Matthew’s rage.The confusing tenderness of his touch.The final, chilling slam of the front door.
We need to talk, love.
Then, I shouldn’t have.
Then, the shattering mug.
“Excuse me, Miss?”
I jump, slapping the damp cloth onto the counter.
A woman with friendly eyes is looking at me expectantly.“Oh!Sorry, yes, I…” I trail off, blinking as her request registers.“Yes.How may I help you?”My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
“Could I get a refill?”she asks, holding up her coffee mug.
“Of course, yes.”My hand trembles slightly as I reach for her mug, betraying the calm I’m trying so hard to project.
The simple task feels monumental.
Pouring the coffee.Handing it back.Forcing another smile.
It takes every ounce of concentration I possess.
I stumble through the rest of the afternoon in a haze, ambushed by memories that flash, sharp and painful.
Matthew’s hand tangled possessively in my wet hair.The icy menace in his eyes as he pinned Roger to the wall.The utter desolation as he broke down in the shower.The cold dismissal in his voice as he left for his deposition.
Each clatter of a dropped spoon sounds like shattering ceramic.
Each customer interaction feels like lifting a car.
I force my mouth into the shape of a smile, dredge up a “Have a great day” from some deep, empty well, and feel a piece of myself crumble away with the effort.
From time to time, I catch Helen watching me from across the room, her expression laced with worry.But she keeps her distance, letting me navigate this minefield of forced normalcy alone.
By the time we finally lock up, a leaden weight has settled deep in my marrow.An exhaustion so profound it feels like a physical illness.
Helen has left, giving my arm a final worried squeeze and reminding me to call if I needed anything.The usual end-of-day satisfaction is absent, replaced by a hollow ache.
I slide the deadbolt home, the heavy thud sealing me in for another night.Turning away from the door, I do a final walkthrough.Pastry case empty and clean.Espresso machine is off.Main lights out.
When I finally retreat to my office, I kick off my shoes.My eyes land on my lone suitcase, sitting open in the corner like a constant reminder of my transience.
Home is now just a couch, tucked between my cluttered desk and a filing cabinet.
I bypass the temptation to collapse immediately.
