Page 7 of Kazimir

Margie herself was in her sixties, with hair dyed the color of cherry cola and the posture of a woman who’d spent three decades fighting gravity and losing. She didn’t waste time.

“Gwen says you knocked into her order on purpose,” Margie said. Her voice was flat, but her eyes darted from me to Gwen and back.

I couldn’t even speak at first. The urge to cry came up so fast I had to bite my tongue to keep it from happening. “It was an accident,” I said. “She—”

“Don’t you dare blame me,” Gwen snapped. “You’re always pulling this helpless act—”

“I’m not blaming anyone,” I said, but my voice cracked. “I just—I need this job.”

Margie sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and looked at Gwen. “She’s got three tables waiting. Can you cover?”

“Gladly,” Gwen said, and left with a triumphant flick of her hair.

Margie waited until the door closed, then leaned in. Her face softened by half a millimeter. “Devon. I’m not gonna fire you. But you have to keep out of her way, you get me? She’s—” She waved a hand. “She’s been here a long time.”

“I get it,” I whispered.

“She’s mad you’re younger and cuter than her. Don’t take it personal.”

I almost laughed at that. I wondered if Margie could see past the hair and the skin to the inside, which was ugly and messy and didn’t match the outside at all.

“Thanks,” I said, but it came out smaller than I meant.

She gave me a quick pat on the shoulder. “Go clean yourself up. You’re on counter until Gwen’s shift is over. We’ll talk later, okay?”

I nodded and ducked out, back into the wet, bacon-scented noise of the kitchen.

The rest of the shift was a blur. Gwen avoided me, but she made sure to tell everyone who would listen that I was clumsy, that I was a flake, that I’d probably cost Margie her health inspection next month. I let it wash over me, focusing on the mindless repetition of pouring coffee, wiping down the counter, and trying not to make eye contact with anyone unless I had to.

Around three, the lunch crowd thinned. A few stragglers lingered in the booths—cops with nowhere better to be, an old man nodding off over his soup, a couple of teens killing time after whatever hell school they went to. I glanced at the clock every few minutes, willing it to move faster, counting down the seconds until Gwen’s shift was over and I could work in peace.

After she’d finally left, I was able to handle my tables with ease. The afternoon and evening passed without incident except for one customer who never left. He’d come in just after the evening rush—a man in a windbreaker, with greasy black hair and a face like old cheese left in the sun. He ordered coffee, then another, then a stack of pancakes he barely touched. Every time I passed, I could feel his eyes on me, sliding up and down my back, my legs, my hands. At first, I ignored it—lots of men looked, and most did nothing about it. But he stared harder than the rest, and when I finally caught his gaze head-on, he smiled with his lips but not with his eyes. I looked away as fast as I could.

“You’re new here,” he said, voice so soft I almost missed it.

“I’ve been here a few months,” I said, keeping my face neutral. I could feel the sweat start up again at my temples. “Can I get you something else?”

He didn’t answer right away, just reached out and touched the edge of my apron with two fingers. The gesture was so casual that it took me a second to register what was happening. Then he dragged his hand back and let it hover just above the counter.

“Pretty,” he said. “Not from around here, are you?”

“No,” I said. I didn’t elaborate.

He just kept looking at me, waiting for something. When I didn’t deliver, he snorted and pushed away from the counter. His cup left a perfect ring, which would bother me all shift. “I’ll see you around,” he said. “It’s a small city.”

I was glad to see him go as I scrubbed the counter so hard it turned my knuckles white.

Polk was waiting for me at closing, like always, but tonight he was different. He’d shaved his beard—something I’d never seen before—and his face looked both softer and sadder without it. He finished locking up the back and walked me to the front, hands deep in his pockets.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, though my stomach hurt from holding in all the things I wanted to say. “I’m fine.”

He grunted. “You know, Margie won’t fire you over Gwen. She likes you. Says you work hard.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t want to talk about Margie, or Gwen, or the man with the bad teeth and the worse intentions.

So I changed the subject. “Why’d you shave?”