literature

Smile

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Literature Text

57. 58. 59.

Sixty. The blocky numbers on the wall flash from 8:14 to 8:15. I jump up from the less than comfortable chair in the staff room and burst through the swinging doors, the morning murmur enveloping me as a welcome.

“Hey,” I say to my coworker. She wears a brown apron, identical to mine, and her hair is tucked into a bun that is neat and annoyingly perfect. “Care for a break?”

She hands a customer their change and gives me a strange look. “My shift just started.”

“Never too early for a break, though, right?”

She turns around, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back against the counter. She stares at me for a minute, and I keep smiling, the forced casualty making my cheeks ache. She looks like she’s about to say something, but must decide against it, as she shrugs and walks away. “All yours.”

I immediately take my place at the till, even though the customer she was attending to is long gone and has yet to be replaced. I sneak a peek at my phone, hidden in the pocket of my apron. 8:16. Any second now.

A bell chimes, signalling the entrance of a new customer. I shove the phone back in my pocket and look up, my customer-is-always-right smile beaming.

It’s him. He approaches my till slowly, gazing at the menu like he hasn’t been here a million times. I already know what he wants, but I don’t start to type it in until he voices it. Oh god, his voice.

He takes his coffee, smiles, nods, and leaves. It’s the same every morning—right down to my smile. Not forced for customers or nonchalance, but one that is all too real. 

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