He laughs. “Of course. She is going to be training anyway. I’ll be staking out the whole day. We’ll be in touch.” With that, I hang up on him, and I’m relieved.
I go to my computer and wink at Lana.
“Don’t worry, hummingbird, you’ll be safe as long as I’m around.”
1.Bosnian pastry paired with smooth cheese.
4
Lana
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where are my pants? I rummage through my closet, pull out all my clothes, and throw them on the floor. My boss is very particular about what we should wear to the diner, and our outfit consists of a blue T-shirt, black pants with no holes, and white sneakers. I can’t be late because I’m looking for the only pair of good black pants I own. I bought them two years ago, and I can’t afford to buy another pair on my salary.
My black pants are nowhere to be seen, and to add to my frustration, my room is a fucking mess. I throw my hands up in frustration.
“How the fuck am I going to go to work with no good pants in a couple of hours?” I practically yell throughout my apartment.
Everything is so expensive.
I still have to clean up my room because I don’t like leaving anything dirty, and I have to do the dishes.
I face away from my window, and I cross my arms and shoot daggers at my closet. Hoping my pants will appear that way. Then my eyes catch something all the way in the back on the top shelf.
My motherfucking pants.
I practically yank them out of the closet, and at the same time, I feel a sting in my thigh. I start to yawn, and great, now I feel tired.
Did I get enough sleep?
I sit down on the floor, and my world turns black.
***
My room. My clothes. Work.
Fuck, I have to go to work.
I try to stand up straight, but I land back on my ass. I try to balance myself by putting my weight on my right hand, and it works. I stand up and straighten out my blue shirt and black pants. My feet make their way toward my broken mirror, and I look over myself.
I look decent. Actually, more than decent, and it’s all because of my pants and sneakers. I rub my temples because I feel a headache coming, and the more I do that, the more I feel the wheels turning in my head. When did I buy a new pair of pants and sneakers? And when did I put them on?
I can’t remember what happened… Oh shit, how late is it? I look at the old clock on my wall, and I see that I have to leave for my evening shift in thirty minutes.
Stellar act, Lana. Being late is such an accomplishment.
I leave for the diner in my car, and the whole time I’m going over what just happened.
Ordidn’thappen.
The recollection of what happened before I passed out isn’t coming to the forefront of my mind, and I’m stuck in my own thoughts. Because my salary depends on me being in the diner, I compose myself by shaking my head and focusing on the road.
I arrive to the diner in my new outfit and make a beeline for the staffroom. My locker has a dingy lock that any amateur burglar can pick, but I don’t care. Everybody who works here generally keeps to themselves. I don’t form any relationships, romantic or platonic, with anyone because it can make disappointments feel heavier.
I give myself one last once-over in the mirror and decide I'm ready to serve.
It’s 5 p.m., and I start my shift that won’t end until midnight.
Lucky me.
