#spiderhead

Martin stares at the floor as the room sinks into the silent aftermath of his words. He lost his daughter in a crash ten years ago and he’s still here. You can see in his posture, in his eyes, that he still feels it as if it were yesterday. 

You pinch your nose with the kleenex and gulp. You flutter your lashes and your gaze snags on another figure. Steve sits with one foot up on the bar of the stool, the other extended to the floor. A man his size makes the tall stools look small. His eyes crinkle before you look away. 

Rita sighs, “thank you everyone for being here. It’s always nice to have you. As usual, there are refreshments. Please have some before you go. I’ll be here for a bit if anyone needs to chat.” She clasps her hands together and gives a forlorn smile. “Don’t forget to do your journalling.” 

Martin gets up first. He doesn’t stay. He goes to get his coat from the rack of hangers. You slide off your seat as a few others trickle over to the table of cups next to an insulated urn and tray of cookies. 

You check the time. You have the time to get a few before your shift. You wait your turn and sense another behind you. You grab a napkin and take one of the cookies from the array of chocolate, macadamia, and oatmeal. You glance over, and up, at Steve. 

“You off to work?” He asks as he notes your uniform. 

“Yeah, again,” you stop and fill a cup of coffee. 

“Mm, I couldn’t imagine working after all this,” he says. 

“Gotta pay the bills,” you shrug. “I... I hope it’s not overstepping but I liked what you said about your wife today. About how missing her is a reminder of how lucky you were to meet her.” You chew your lip and your eyes tinge. You sniffle. “I’m sorry you lost her.” 

“Yes, well,” he takes a cup of his own. 

He wears a blazer over a dark red shirt. The cut looks expensive; too expensive for here. And the gold frame of his glasses are a bit dated but the Prada on the arm suggests not. You always catch yourself judging and feel bad. You just can’t help but think he could probably afford better than the free community grief counseling. 

“We’ve all lost someone,” he continues. “Your grandmother, right?” 

“Uh, yes,” you frown. “She raised me.” 

“Sounds like a very noble woman,” he remarks. “Oh, don’t let me keep you,” he checks his watch. The bend of his arm causes his muscles to bulge in his sleeve. “I hope it is a quick night for you.” 

“Thanks, Steve. I’ll see you next week.” 

“Next week,” he assures you and blows over his cup. 

You stop to grab your fleece-lined hoodie before you head out. It’s bitterly cold out but your old wool coat went missing in the work breakroom. At your second job. The first one, you at least get a locker. You tried to factor a replacement from your next check but most of that will go to rent. 

You sigh as you approach the stop, nursing the hot coffee and nibbling on the cookie. There’s no shelter there. The winds swirl around you and seep through your thrifted sweater. Can’t complain for a four dollar bargain. 

A car slows as it passes and the tinted window rolls down. It’s nice. Sleek. Fancy. Well above what someone working a drive-thru window can afford. Steve shoves his large hand out and waves. You wave back, biting down on your embarrassment. 

You turn your attention up the street and watch for the bus. When it comes, the last of your coffee is cold and your fingers are tingling but numb. You sit and rub your palms together as you watch through the window. 

You get to the burger place right before you’re set to start. You clock in and put on the mandated visor and start your vigil in the window. You’re not allowed to wear any coat except the company-issued one but you can’t afford to order one. So you shiver in your long-sleeved tee and keep the window closed between customers. 

A deep voice greets you from the speaker, “hello, um, might I ask what the wacky sauce is?” 

You give it some thought. No one’s ever really asked. They just order extra and throw a fit if you forget it. You turn and grab a packet and hurriedly examine the ingredients, droning out an ‘ummmmmmm’ into the microphone. You do your best to explain. 

“Mm, can I get the double without that?”  

You agree. It sounds gross once you look at the label. You key in their order as they make it a combo with your prompting. You tell them to drive around and get the machine ready for payment. 

You slide the window open and hold back a brrr. You nearly cough as you’re greeted by a familiar face. It’s Steve. 

“Huh, what are the odds? I thought you sound familiar.” He smirks. 

“Oh, hi,” you offer the screen for him to tap his card. You didn’t take him for the fastfood sort. 

“Bust night,” he muses. 

“A little,” you agree. “Do you need your receipt. 

“No, thanks, sweetie,” he winks. “Nice to see a friendly face.” 

He slowly rolls away and you slide the window shut. Ugh, you’re freezing. Not to mention a bit ashamed. It’s not hard to guess where you work since you wear your uniform all too often to the meetings, but it’s another to be seen out in the wild.