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Understatement of the year.
I nod, crinkling my nose. “Let’s just say that today was a bust.” A long, drawn-out sigh sails past my lips. I finger the flimsy wad of cash before shoving it into my purse. “I won’t be paying my rent with it.”
Nor will I be paying for dinner, groceries, electricity…I wonder how much a kidney goes for these days. Enough to buy a four-ounce steak and fries?
On second thought…I turn my nose up, inhaling the fragrance wafting from the kitchen. It’s an assault against my senses. It smells foul and looks unappetizing. My belly churns, my mouth dries, and my appetite has long since fled the building. Am I desperate enough…?
My stomach heaves, as if to say,I swear to God, Sasha, if you eat that, I’ll be your first organ to volunteer for black-market removal.
Normally, the food here is decent—greasy but edible. Today, Johnny tried something new for a special. Spoiler alert: it won’t be on the menu again anytime soon. And I might just petition our boss to demote Johnny from head chef to anything that pries him away from the stove and the crime against tastebuds that just left it.
“You’re working at the wrong diner, kid.” Johnny snorts. “Nobody’s paying their rent on tips from this hellhole.”
He isn’t wrong. This isn’t exactly the best place to work for tips in the city, but it’s a quick walk up the block to my apartment, and with enough shifts, I can actually pay my bills.
However, today crawled by with half our usual customer flow. A setback I can’t afford. These days, I can barely afford to breathe.
“It’s even worse that the tips were abysmal because the people sucked too.” Johnny snaps off his latex gloves, shoving them in the breakroom’s trash can. “If I have to hear one more person bitch about the eggs, I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”
To be fair, Johnny’s idea of eggs over easy is eggs nuked to the point where the CDC, a hazmat team, and full-body PPE couldn’t revive them.
“They were especially rude.”
A harsh breath rushes from my chest as I think about one customer in particular who practically hurled her plate at me, with the added bonus of calling me a floozy when it was her husband who checked out my ass, not the other way around. I was minding my double-cheeked business when her country-fried chicken frisbeed past, crashing into the wall above me. I just know it’ll take two showers to wash the gravy out of my hair tonight.
“Well, I’m headed home.” I sling my purse over my shoulder. “See you later.”
A raised hand is all I get. No goodbyes. Typical Johnny.
I’ve learned not to expect more from him than two minutes of feigned interest before I leave. In fact, I appreciate it. There are few things I can count on in this city, and Johnny being Johnny is one of them.
I swing open the door, blending into the crowd within seconds. Hours of running from table to table weigh down my steps. I trudge through the busy streets. Everywhere I look, a flurry of movement flashes, people rushing past in a blur of hurried energy. The volume of their voices overwhelms me. Sometimes, the thing I dream of most is escaping this oppressive city. More than I want my next meal. More than I want to play the cello at Juilliard. More than I want my brother to be clean after all these years.
The sun shines brightly, but I feel engulfed by shadows. Weaving my way in and out of the typical midday foot traffic, I narrowly miss a head-on collision with a man whose face hovers a mere inch from his phone.
“Watch it,” he snarls, not even bothering to glance up.
Apparently, he missed the fact thathewas the one to swerve onto my side of the path. It takes everything in me not to fling a coupon to the optometrist at his feet. (Yes, in addition to being broke, I have devolved into a coupon hoarder. Not the glamorous life I expected to live at twenty-one, but what can you do?)
“Asshole.” It’s spoken under my breath. Thankfully, he doesn’t hear it, because I can’t afford a fight today. Or any day. I’m barely functioning as is.
Today is a typical day in New York City. People tend to be prickly, especially in the afternoon when they’re stuck in the drudgery of their less-than-fulfilling careers.
City of dreams, my ass.
After a few blocks, I make it home. Walking through my front door doesn’t have the soothing effect one would hope for. Today, the walls feel like they’re closing in on me, and I haven’t even been here for more than a second.
At only two hundred square feet, my studio is too small, but it’s all I can afford. Just the sight of the dreary place is enough to remind me of the meager tips dancing inside my purse. If I’m being thrifty, it’ll pay for whatever mystery meat is on sale at the local market, but nothing more. Which is the only reason I can’t move out of the city. Well…the second reason. The first is that I don’t have enough money for a car. Call me spoiled, but trekking tens of miles to work by foot just isn’t in the books for me at this particular stage in my life.
Palming my phone, I hover over the three missed calls from Roman. It’s been two days, and I still haven’t dismissed the notifications. Something about them lingers in my mind like an inoperable tumor. I can’t shed my worry like I normally do. Can’t excise the chunks of fear edging their way into my brain.
My brother never calls. Ever. Certainly not three times in one day. And for good reason. I’ve asked him not to. Demanded it, actually. His propensity for trouble, specifically with drugs, drove us apart years ago.
The fact that he left a voicemail has my stomach doing somersaults. Sweat beads on my brow. I swipe it off, wondering whether I should call him back. What trouble has he gotten himself into now? Better question—is it worth letting him re-enter my life over?
Finally, I cave, pressing the play button on the voicemail.
So weak. And you swore you’d never entertain him again.
