I hate Dmitri. I hate what he did. I hate the way his mouth looked on Katya’s, the way his voice sounded when he said I would be fine, as if I were a child refusing to behave.
But the ring is still on my hand.
Not all the time. During the day, I tie it into the hem of my coat with a piece of thread I pulled from the bedsheet. At night, I takeit out and hold it in my palm like an idiot. I don’t know why. I feel a weird pull toward the ring, but it has nothing to do with Dmitri.
Today, I stand in the back kitchen of a drive-through burger place called Misha’s, wearing a black cap, a grease-stained apron, and gloves that are too big for my hands.
I hate it here. I hate the heat from the fryers. I hate the smell of oil that clings to my hair no matter how many times I wash it in the tiny bathroom upstairs. I hate the way the floor stays slippery even after I mop it. I hate that my feet ache after three hours and my back hurts after five.
Mostly, I hate that I’m bad at it.
“Anna,” Pavel snaps from the grill. “Buns. I need buns.”
I jerk back to attention. “Yes.”
He points with his spatula. “Not those. The toasted ones.”
I reach for the wrong tray again.
He closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “No. Those are cold.”
“I know.”
“You clearly don’t.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and move to the right tray.
There was a time, not even a week ago, when men opened car doors for me and waiters remembered my drink order. Now I’m being scolded by a man with onion smell on his shirt because I can’t tell which buns are ready.
The worst part is that he’s right. I don’t know how to do any of this.
I’ve never worked before. Not properly. Not for money. Not because rent depends on it. My life before this was fittings, lunches, salon appointments, charity events, and pretending not to hear my father argue behind closed doors.
I thought I was tired then.
I didn’t know what tired meant.
“Order twelve,” Pavel says. “Two chicken, one double, no pickles.”
I stare at the screen. The words seem to move too quickly.
“Anna.”
“I heard you.”
He gives me a look that says he doubts it.
I assemble the food slowly, carefully, trying not to mess it up. The girl at the drive-through window, Marina, chews gum while taking payments and somehow remembers six orders at once. She’s nineteen and already better at surviving than I am.
She glances back at me. “You’re holding the line.”
My face heats. “I’m trying.”
“I can see that.”
It isn’t cruel. Somehow that makes it worse.
I lower my head and keep working.
