We come from two different worlds and though he may say he enjoys spending time in mine, he won’t love it forever, and I simply can’t keep up with his.
I hate to say I feel an inevitable end to whatever is going on between us but it’s true. I don’t see how it would work long term.
By noon, we’ve turned away six people.
Six.
The words stick in my throat every time. “I’m so sorry,” I tell an older man with shaking hands. “We hope to have more stock tomorrow.”
We might.
We might not.
Regardless, he nods politely like I’ve done him a favor. Like I didn’t just send him back into the world empty-handed andhungry. And when Mrs. Lingle stops by with her two little kids, I can’t stop myself from pulling all the cash out of my pocket and slipping it to her, even as a voice inside me whispers that I’ll need that money for rent.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
Everything’s fine.
I’ll make it work.
“The supermarket down the street has canned chicken and tuna on sale,” I inform Mrs. Lingle, my voice steadier than my heart. “A loaf of bread is only one dollar there and their produce isn’t too bad. Use all of this and get whatever you can. I’m so sorry it’s not more.”
She gives me a hug I don’t deserve and I offer suckers to her two littles, their hopeful eyes making me wonder if they’ll go to bed hungry tonight despite my twenty-three dollars and change. I watch them walk away with nothing more than a box of soup crackers and a couple cans of Spaghetti-O’s.
It’s not enough.
I’m not enough.
I want to scream.
I want to cry for them…and for me.
I want to help every person that walks into the Portland Pantry but after just a few hours, I have nothing left to hand out and no more money in my pockets.
Why can’t I be in a position to do more?
I’m a healthy person and a hard worker.
But no matter what I do, it will never be enough.
It’s fine.
I work tonight.
I’ll make more tips.
I’ve handled worse and if Mrs. Lingle and her kids get to eat tonight, then it’s all worth it.
My phone buzzes for what feels like the fortieth time. I wipe my hands on my jeans and pull my phone from my pocket, expecting Shepherd or maybe Mari. Instead, a text notification from my landlord flashes on the screen, and the words blur as my vision tunnels.
NOTICE OF SALE — BUILDING OWNERSHIP TRANSFER
Wait…what?
The phone trembles in my grip as I read the email once, and then twice, my heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape the inevitable. The building has been sold. All tenants must vacate by the end of the month.
