Lips Made of Yarn

I hung the polyester material on a hook, pinning his nametag to the lapel. I don't know why I was doing this, but a part of me was hoping he'd come back tomorrow. That's shot to hell, after Kranger insulted him in front of all those people.

Just thinking about it makes a bubble form in my stomach. I fought it down quickly, not wanting to feel pity for him. Brendon is just like any other person; I shouldn't feel pity just because he isn't exactly like me.

I sighed and threw my own uniform on the floor, slinging my shoulder bag over the front of my body. I shut off the lights and locked the front door behind me. Sometimes I really wonder how Kranger is above me on the executive ladder; I do all of the work. He sits in his office all day as I work the register, make the drinks, keep inventory, manage the books, and occasionally clean the shop.

The night was cold, as per usual, and I wrapped a hoodie around myself.
"Shoot," I muttered. There was a large hole in the fabric by my elbow, and the chilly wind was flying through it and up my arm, deeming my hoodie completely worthless.

I started walking, bending my head down. My feet are already sore from standing on them all day, and just the thought of the three mile walk that lies ahead makes them throb even more. My bag started slipping so I pulled it further up, picking up my pace.

Forty-five minutes later, I've finally left the high priced neighborhood Starbucks is located in and have entered Salk Village, otherwise known as the cheaper part of Las Vegas, and my home.

As I walk up the drive to my apartment building, I stop and glare at the car in front me. It was a dirty, black Honda, all fours tires completely deflated. I scowled and kicked my car, regretting it instantly as a sharp pain sounded in my foot. Not only is this neighborhood the cheapest around, apparently its teenage residents take pleasure in popping tires in the middle of the night. It’s going to take me at least three paychecks to have enough money to buy four new tires. Which means another month of walking home.

Turning my back on my useless car, I pushed open the apartment door with ease, not even having to use a key. The landlord apparently doesn't care if robbers decided to break it, because there's absolutely no security system. But I guess it’s a plus, since I don't have to buzz anyone in, they can just come directly up to my apartment.

I sigh in relief when I see the elevator is working again, and happily get on. An instrumental version of 'I Believe I Can Fly' cracks over the speakers, occasionally tuning in and out. I hum along, the breath leaving my nose coming out as a thin white cloud, furling in on itself.

The door opens on the fifth floor and I step out, walking door to the very end of the hall. The key sticks as usual, and it takes me another five minutes to jimmy it around so my door opens.

My apartment isn't anything special, below average if anything. There's a simple couch, a modest TV, one bedroom, and a kitchen/dining area. It’s perfect to me, and it was a complete steal.

I made myself a quick bowl of buttered pasta and sat at the couch, turning on the television.
I really do hope Brendon comes back in tomorrow. Part of me wants to save him the possible humiliation from Kranger, but a bigger part just wants to see him again.

A million questions float through my mind. What happened to you? Have you always been like this? Why did your mother insist on you working here? What do you think of me?
Not like I would ever actually ask him, but I won’t deny I'm curious as hell.

I find myself begging for Brendon to come back tomorrow, just so I can find out more about him. Anything about him. Favorite color, food, ice cream flavor. A little surprised at myself, I tuck all my questions away and clean up my dinner.

I need to use three blankets because it gets so goddamn cold in here. I curl up into a little ball, warm under all the layers, and can’t help but feel questionably anxious for tomorrow.