Get up Whenever You Fall
Thea
My work shift starts in exactly ten minutes. As the seconds tick by, I swallow the last of my water and rush to my work place: a relatively medium-sized fast food place with cashiers that wear chestnut brown uniforms. Actually, I'm one of those so-callled cashiers.
Framed pictures of the older version of this food place clings to the tan walls, supposedly to 'embellish' the area. The floors are coated with a thin surface of dust— something I have to sweep clean later on— and the air wafts with the salty smell of fried junks. Somehow, this became my second home— my second sanctuary.
As I typically expect, the gang is there (a group of guys that always hangs out here). Their voices drift noisily through the room as if they don't give a care about anything in the world.
Through my squinting eyes, I scrutinize one of the boys. Adriel Standford is his name. Sandy blond hair and pale eyes to match; these are his features. Just last week he gave me a generous tip before nudging another guy.
"Name's Adriel Stanford," he grinned broadly, so much that it hurt. He tugged at his friend's shirt and shoved his friend forward. "And this dude's name is Travis."
Travis was a pale guy with hair dyed maroon-ish. He was lanky and clueless, slouching in front of me because he didn't know how to respond to Adriel's introduction.
But that event was last week, and they don't even cast a single glance at me today, which is rare. I'm not sure I'm glad about that. After a couple hours of working, I notice they are still there, now hushed into whispers and occasionally giving me knowing glimpses. I saunter to some tables, wiping the tops clean, and soon someone calls for me.
"Thea!" one of them calls, probably Adriel. They figured out my name somehow now? "Hey, can you come here for a second?"
I drag the wiping cloth with me and begin wiping half their table. "Can I help you with anything?" I ask, avoiding eye contact with them considering all their eyes trail to me now. I add a small sigh to signal them that they are eating my time.
"Well..." Adriel trails off, eyes darting from me to Travis. "Remember Travis?"
I nod, thinking of something else. "How do you know my name?" I blurt.
"We asked some questions to your co-workers," Adriel winks. "So I was—"
"Thea, we need you up front here." That's the cook, Mr. Goodjohn, pleading for help from the kitchen area. It is also my cue to stop socializing.
"I need to go," I tell the guys and start to flee off.
"Wait," the Travis person walks up to me and slips a small piece of paper in my hands. "I think you dropped this." Of course I didn't drop the neatly folded paper, but I accept it anyway.
Soon the herd of guys exit as I stand in front of the cash register. Wondering, I unfold the piece of paper carefully. It's Travis Mueller's number. Pulling on a small pout, I crumple the paper into a ball and toss it into the trash bin.
I have no time for boys.
Framed pictures of the older version of this food place clings to the tan walls, supposedly to 'embellish' the area. The floors are coated with a thin surface of dust— something I have to sweep clean later on— and the air wafts with the salty smell of fried junks. Somehow, this became my second home— my second sanctuary.
As I typically expect, the gang is there (a group of guys that always hangs out here). Their voices drift noisily through the room as if they don't give a care about anything in the world.
Through my squinting eyes, I scrutinize one of the boys. Adriel Standford is his name. Sandy blond hair and pale eyes to match; these are his features. Just last week he gave me a generous tip before nudging another guy.
"Name's Adriel Stanford," he grinned broadly, so much that it hurt. He tugged at his friend's shirt and shoved his friend forward. "And this dude's name is Travis."
Travis was a pale guy with hair dyed maroon-ish. He was lanky and clueless, slouching in front of me because he didn't know how to respond to Adriel's introduction.
But that event was last week, and they don't even cast a single glance at me today, which is rare. I'm not sure I'm glad about that. After a couple hours of working, I notice they are still there, now hushed into whispers and occasionally giving me knowing glimpses. I saunter to some tables, wiping the tops clean, and soon someone calls for me.
"Thea!" one of them calls, probably Adriel. They figured out my name somehow now? "Hey, can you come here for a second?"
I drag the wiping cloth with me and begin wiping half their table. "Can I help you with anything?" I ask, avoiding eye contact with them considering all their eyes trail to me now. I add a small sigh to signal them that they are eating my time.
"Well..." Adriel trails off, eyes darting from me to Travis. "Remember Travis?"
I nod, thinking of something else. "How do you know my name?" I blurt.
"We asked some questions to your co-workers," Adriel winks. "So I was—"
"Thea, we need you up front here." That's the cook, Mr. Goodjohn, pleading for help from the kitchen area. It is also my cue to stop socializing.
"I need to go," I tell the guys and start to flee off.
"Wait," the Travis person walks up to me and slips a small piece of paper in my hands. "I think you dropped this." Of course I didn't drop the neatly folded paper, but I accept it anyway.
Soon the herd of guys exit as I stand in front of the cash register. Wondering, I unfold the piece of paper carefully. It's Travis Mueller's number. Pulling on a small pout, I crumple the paper into a ball and toss it into the trash bin.
I have no time for boys.