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- > 2008-04-04
In the front of the bakery she slumps. It is four twenty-six in the afternoon and there is plenty to do. She should be
sweeping the floor
or merchandising the product
or attracting customers
or sanitizing everything in sight. But she will not. An incessant beeping emits frequently from the broken alarm system in the corner, and for an instant she is tempted to throw a shoe at it in hopes of breaking. She leans her head back, and hears the same old flat bubbly songs polluting the air. She groans.
Her mind drifts to four hours earlier; to the dented basement she must call home. There was somebody with her, but by now she has trouble recalling his face.
He'd once been a close friend, perhaps somebody she'd met in high school.
In her mind's eye he is still the same. He has money and love and the best parties in town. His hair is messy and his clothes are perfect.
-
Now he shaves his head.
His clothes are wrinkled in a classic student fashion, and he refuses when offered a smoke. When she attempts to reminisce or tell a joke, he smiles sweetly at her, clearly with pity.
She can't even afford a cellphone.
She is going no where with her life.
He came for a necklace he'd given her two years prior.
It was a simple silver chain with a cross, easily replaceable. He claims that it used to belong to his mother, that he needs it back.
She doesn't quite care. It takes her some time to find. In the meanwhile the boy sits impatiently on the sofa bed, which is pulled out and muddled with chip crumbs. He flips through old newspapers and listens to his Ipod.
She is in the empty bedroom, surrounded by shoeboxes full of memories. She remembers the chain with ease; it had been a token of commitment, of love.
She had worn it every day for a year, and cradled it in her arms as she slept. It had been the world to her. He had been the world to her.
She glances out of her bedroom door at the figure leaning against her pillow and sighs.
She was due at her job in twenty minutes; she'd better work fast.
There are too many boxes.
Her voice is flimsy and slightly shaking as she calls for him.
Together they work in silence,
opening boxes and shaking through its' contents before moving on to the next. Combined it takes about five minutes; he is the one to find it.
With a quick 'Thanks' and a muttered 'Nice to see you,' they go on with their lives. He slides into his Nissan and dreams of all the roads sprawled ahead of him and his University ass. And her, she runs to work and cleans the floor for $9.50 an hour.
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