I’m in the way. I know I’m in the way. The space behind me is empty but I still feel like I’m blocking something. Someone.
No one tells me where to go.
I wait for it. A voice.Move.Get out of the way.What are you doing here?
Nothing.
I don’t know what to do with my body.
I knot my hands tighter. My knuckles go white. The pressure is the only thing keeping me from shaking apart.
The counter. People walk up to it. They speak to the person behind it. That’s what you do in a place like this. I’ve seen it in movies. I’ve watched other people do it.
I move toward it in steps I count without meaning to.
One. The floor is tile. Grey. I notice the grout lines. They’ve darkened near the edges where water pools.
Two. My shoes don’t make sound. I learned to walk without sound. To open doors without sound. To exist without leaving a mark.
Three. The man behind the counter glances up. He looks my age. His hair is messy in a way that probably took time to look effortless. His sleeves are pushed to his elbows, and a dark tattoo curls out from under one—I can’t quite see what it is. A small pin on his apron saysKieran.
He offers a bright, effortless smile. A currency I don’t possess and don’t know how to reciprocate. It costs him nothing. It lightsup his whole face. I wonder what that feels like—to smile at a stranger without calculating the risk. To offer warmth without waiting for the blow.
“Hey there,” he says, his voice easy, the voice of someone who sayshey therefifty times a day and means it every single time. “What can I get for you?”
I just stare.
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
I can feel the shape of the words in my throat.I’m here about the job.I saw the sign.I want to apply. They won’t come up. They’re stuck behind a dam built of years of being told not to speak. Behind a childhood where opening my mouth meant a hand across my face.
His smile stays. But something shifts behind it. He’s not sure what to make of me. I don’t blame him. I’m not sure what to make of me either.
“A… job,” I finally say.
The words come out thin. Barely there. The espresso machine almost eats them.
He blinks. “A… job?”
I nod. Just once. My chin dips and comes back up. It feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
He shifts his weight, the friendly expression now tinged with a puzzled crease between his brows. “Oh. Uh… maybe Maeve posted something? She’s the owner.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t hear about any openings, but let me check with her.”
He disappears through a swinging door.
I am left alone at the counter.
I can feel my pulse in my palms. I am fighting to keep the tremor from showing, fighting to keep my face neutral, fighting to stay standing when every part of me wants to turn aroundand walk back out the door and never think about this moment again.
But I don’t move.
I stay.
I wait.
I do not run.
