I sit quietly until the customers disappear. Posey is wiping down the bottles of flavored syrup with a wet rag. The tables are dirty, eight out of ten of them. I walk over to the trash area and grab the busser tub from inside the cabinet next to the trash can. Lila is still saying “car” and “zoom” as I start to clear off the first table. A three-dollar tip.
Not too bad. You’d be surprised at the number of customers that leave their tables a mess but don’t think to leave a tip for the person cleaning it up. I’m not sure if it’s rudeness or if it’s just ignorance. Like Uber drivers: we assume that they get their entire tip, which is charged automatically, but I’ve heard people say it’s not. Even if you mark the 15 percent tab, they don’t actually see that money, so this one guy in my class told me you’re supposed to tip them in cash. Then again, he said he was from France, but his accent was clearly German, so the possibility of him lying is probably fairly high . . .
Either way, baristas should be tipped way more than they are. Public-service announcement complete. Moving on.
The next table has at least four sugar packets emptied out into a pile. I’m impressed when I see the sugar packets folded into little stick figures. There’s a toothpick with a piece of napkin for a flag stuck right into the center of the sugar hill. I try to remember what the guy looked like who was sitting here. Actually, I think it was a girl. Or woman. I didn’t get a clear look at her face, but whoever she is, she’s clearly an awesome force in the miniature sugar sculpture scene.
“Lila.” I call to get the little girl’s attention. She looks up but doesn’t move her body from its now full-on lying-down position on the floor.
“Do you want to come see this little scene over here? It’s pretty cool.” I point to the sugar hill and stare at the fake sword in one of the sugar-packet people’s arm.
A hearty “no” comes out of her mouth and I nod, not entirely surprised, flattening the hill with my washcloth. I go back and forth between clearing the remaining tables and keeping an eye on Lila. As I’m taking a last swipe over the second-to-last table, Posey walks from behind the counter and stands in front of me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says; the brown of her eyes is barely noticeable because of how bloodshot they are. “It’s your day off.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She glances around the shop and nods, sighing as she sits down at the table closest to her sister.
She shrugs. “Just tired. Work, school, the usual.” Her smile is perky still, despite her words. She doesn’t like to complain, I can tell, even though she totally has reason to, or to at least vent.
“If you need to have some shifts picked up or anything, let me know. I don’t mind helping and I have some free time this semester.” I actually don’t have that much free time, but I would like to help her if I can. She clearly has more going on than I do.
Posey shakes her head, and her cheeks flush. Light red strands are escaping from the tiny black elastic band that’s too small to hold her hair. In the light, her hair looks lighter, as if she dyed it red. Her complexion doesn’t give any of her secrets away.
“I need the shifts. But if you know anyone who makes bubbles to put little four-year-old daredevils inside of while I work, let me know.”
I smile with her and look at Lila, who is still lying on the floor.
“She’s autistic,” she says. Somewhere inside my head, the pieces were put together within a few minutes of meeting her. “We aren’t sure how severe yet. She’s learning to talk now”—she pauses briefly—“at four.”
“Well, sometimes that’s not such a bad thing.” I gently bump her shoulder with mine, trying to find a dash of humor in something so scary. She uncrosses her arms and her face relaxes into a wide smile.
“True.” She presses her fingers against her lips.
Posey bends down closer to her little sister and rests her hands on her knees. I can’t hear what she says, but I can see that it makes Lila happy.
I check the time; it’s close to six. If I’m going to go out with Nora and her friends, I need to get back to my apartment and shower. I’m not nervous really, I just don’t know what she’s thinking about me. Does she randomly kiss people often? If so, that’s okay, but I wish I had some inkling of what she’s feeling, or how she acts on a date. She’d been flirty before today—well, I take it as her flirting, but so far she hadn’t given me any indication or warning that she was open to kissing me like she did this morning. She was so confident when she leaned into me, pressing into me, running her hands over my chest. Remembering the way her tongue tasted makes my cock ache. I need to do something about it, and this time, I won’t rip the shower curtain and fall on my ass and cut my face and bruise my knee. Safe sex: I’ll stay safely in my bed. With my door locked. I’ll even push my dresser against the door.