Thirsty

fiction

Photo by Ria Alfana on Unsplash

I turned my back to the pickup window, allowing the late afternoon sun to roast the whiter side of my barely tanned upper torso. With any luck I’d be evened out by closing time. I frowned at my left shoulder and wished I’d gone with the lacy bralette instead of the satin pushup. It would have looked nicer peeking out from under the straps of my tank top, which I wasn’t even supposed to be wearing at work, but Devon left me in charge, the AC was out, and it was a hundred degrees outside.

A bead of sweat formed at the meeting place of my collar bones and made it’s descent into my barely evident cleavage. I tipped my head back and sighed.

“Hot?”

I grunted impatiently and stood upright. My bra shifted out of position, but I chose to ignore the discomfort. I wasn’t about to adjust my boobs in front of Raymond Garrison. It was bad enough he knew I had them to begin with. I couldn’t remember the last time he acted like a human around me. Fourth grade?

“You should just go home,” I said, grabbing a lukewarm dish rag from the edge of the sink and wiping the counter for the fifteenth time in as many minutes.

“But we’re closing buddies.” Ray beamed at me from his favorite barstool. The one that squeaked the loudest. His closing duties were done an hour ago. Now he was just ‘keeping me company.’

He spun a three-sixty and the metallic squeaking set my teeth on edge.

“I don’t need a closing buddy. Devon said I was acting manager, and as acting manager, I’m telling you to go home.”

“Fine,” he grinned. “I’ll punch out.” He hopped off the stool and grabbed a ketchup bottle. He gave it a vigorous spin on the counter and made a dash for the office.

I narrowed my eyes at the back of his stocky frame bouncing out of my orbit and felt a twist of anxiety at the thought of being in the diner alone for twenty minutes without backup. Not that I wanted backup for this. And if I did, I certainly didn’t want it from Raymond flipping Garrison.

My eyes drifted to the ketchup bottle, still spinning. I caught it in my palm and set it back in the napkin caddy, killing whatever little game Ray was playing with himself.

Any charm Ray had as a little boy—and he had gobs of it. From his thick, brown hair and flecked green eyes down to his perpetually untied shoes—it was gone now. Or maybe not gone. Just buried. Under a thick layer of pubescent dementia.

The sun went supernova through the window and my skin flushed in retaliation. I dragged the dish towel across my forehead for some relief.

“Um… not sure I’d be doing that,” Ray said, returning from the back in a crisp, green button-down shirt. His hair was damp, like he’d run his wet hands through it a few times. To tame it.

My breath got caught in my throat and I faked a cough to cover it. Clearly, he was trying to impress someone. Probably me. Or maybe he had a fake date waiting. I didn’t care. I just wanted him out of the way.

“Doing what?” I said turning my gaze to the clock and sliding the dish rag down my cheek.

“Oh my god, that.” He grimaced and pointed at the dish rag. “Pretty sure I used that to wipe out the grease trap earlier.”

“Ugh. Shit! That’s disgusting!” I threw the rag into the sink and dug my purse out from under the counter frantically.

“I know.” He laughed. “What the hell were you doing?”

“Shut up,” I said on the verge of humiliated tears. Stupid Devon not fixing the air conditioner. Stupid dish rag. Stupid Ray and his squeaky barstool and his stupid green shirts! “I was distracted.”

“By me?” His mouth tilted toward a smirk, and I stopped it in its cocky tracks.

“Hell no. That’s disgusting.”

His face fell and I ignored the twinge of guilt behind my ribcage.

“Wow. Don’t hold back, Miss boob shirt.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I snapped. My grease coated fingers struggled to unseal the package of rosewater face wipes I’d brought to freshen up.

“It means you’re wearing a boob shirt, and it’s very distracting.”

“It is not,” I spat. “Why won’t these damn things open?!”

“Um… yeah… it is. Why are you wearing that anyway?”

“Why do you care what I’m wearing?” I grabbed a fork and stabbed uselessly at the iron-clad packaging.

“I don’t,” he said calmly. “Give me that.”

I hurled the fork in his direction, and he ducked just in time.

“Jesus, Cara, what the hell?”

“I’m sorry.” My voice cracked and I wanted to hide my face, but my hands were covered in fryer grease. I settled for pouting like a toddler.

I waited for him to laugh at me, but he didn’t.

He held his hand out and I handed him the package of wipes. He opened it on the first try and handed it back to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” I asked.

“Okay, you’re welcome.” I felt his eyes on me, and I tried not to look flustered as I scurried to the restroom which held the only mirror in the building that wasn’t cracked or covered in kitchen grime.

The sight of my post-shift reflection made me want to give up. Punch out early and leave Ray mystified by my disappearance. The idiot would probably have the cops searching for me within the hour. He’d have to cancel his date. Which he clearly wanted me to know he had.

No. I’m staying. Ray is leaving. The end.

I went to work degreasing my face and hands, brushed my teeth and ran my fingers through my frizzy, lemon juiced hair. I’d stupidly gotten it cut above my shoulders. Now, I couldn’t wear it up unless it was in short pigtails, and that wasn’t the look I was going for. Not today.

I forced my natural center part to the left, smoothed everything down with the grease residue I couldn’t get off my hands, and tucked the ends behind my ears. I dragged on a double coat of mascara and a slick of unflavored lip gloss.

I blasted my underarms with the hand dryer and adjusted my overcooked breasts inside their padded prison cells. I inched the neckline on my tank top up an inch. Back down. Up again. Considered changing back into my work polo and swallowed a frustrated scream.

He might not even show up. Just chill out. As if chilling out was humanly possible in this apocalyptic heat wave. No wonder we hadn’t had a customer all day. Just me and Ray and …

The entry bell sounded from the front door and my stomach jack-knifed into my lungs.

I yanked my neckline down one last time, pinched some color into my cheeks like Scarlett flipping O’Hara, blew myself a kiss in the mirror and rolled my eyes in disgust.

I hustled back to the dining room to find Ray alone at the counter, squeaking his barstool, and spinning that stupid ketchup bottle again.

“Did he leave?” I asked, breathlessly.

He didn’t look up from the bottle. His head rested in his left hand, two fingers twirling a thick strand of hair. He used to do that when he was taking a test. Or thinking hard about something. Or right before he fell asleep.

“Did who leave?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. Since I didn’t exactly know who “he” was.

“Um … didn’t I hear the bell?” I wriggled the neckline of my shirt up and chewed my unflavored lip.

“That was me.”

I sighed exasperatedly. “Why were you messing with the door?”

“I wasn’t messing with the door. I was using the door,” he said defensively. “I went out to start the AC in my car. If that’s okay with you, Miss…” I reached out and snatched the spinning ketchup bottle and stowed it behind the counter, out of his reach. “…acting manager.”

I glanced at the clock. Five minutes left. I scanned what I could of the parking lot. Just Ray’s blue Civic and my white Corolla, parked a respectable distance from the building. And each other.

No motorcycle.

Maybe he wasn’t coming.

“Can I get a soda?” Ray asked, grating my nerves into a combustible powder.

“Get it yourself.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m off the clock.”

I growled through my teeth. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“If you’re off the clock, why don’t you just leave?!”

“Because I’m thirsty,” he said matching my volume and irritation level.

I could have punched him. “I’m not getting you a soda.” I crossed my arms to emphasize the point.

“Yes, you are,” he said.

“No. I’m not. You’re not my boss, Ray.”

“No,” he said bravely, the hint of a grin on his parched lips. “I’m your customer…” He leaned forward on the counter, closing the gap between us. My pulse kicked up an infuriating notch, but I stood my ground as he reached for the confiscated ketchup bottle behind the counter in front of me. “…and the customer is always—”

I grabbed the bottle and threw it in the just-emptied trash can. I cringed as the bottle shattered against the plastic lined bottom.

“Who the hell told you to clock out?!” I shouted at him.

“You did.” He slid back into his seat. It almost looked like cowering which almost made me feel like a bully. At the very least a crummy boss.

“Since when do you listen to me?”

He looked me in the eye and his voice softened. “I always listen to you.”

I opened my mouth to produce a retort, but there wasn’t one.

I turned my back on him and filled a large to-go cup with ice.

I still wanted him to leave. But he didn’t need to leave thirsty.

“Dr. Pepper?” I confirmed. It had always been Dr. Pepper, ever since we were in sixth grade and—

“Diet Pepsi, actually.”

I swallowed over a tickle in my throat and moved the cup over two spaces. I filled it all the way up, stopping three quarters of the way to let the foam die down, before capping it and pulling a straw from the box under the counter. I opened it for him using my teeth, and it felt intimate in a way that should have made me uncomfortable. That it didn’t make me uncomfortable made me uncomfortable.

I let him put the straw in the hole himself.

Right.

I turned back around to collect the errant ice chips that had fallen on the floor and when I stood up to face him again, he’d already found himself another ketchup bottle and set it spinning on the counter.

I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do.

“What are you doing?” I peeked at the clock but was suddenly less concerned about the time.

“Trying my luck,” he said, taking a long sip of his soda while he watched the bottle’s velocity decrease. I took a long breath of stifling hot air while I watched his lips caress the straw.

I inched the neckline of my tank top down a hair. When his eyes didn’t move, I inched it back up.

“Who is he?” he asked. The bottle limped through its final rounds.

“Who is who?” I said a little dazed by the ketchup carousel and the smell of Ray’s shampoo. He must have reactivated it when he got it wet.

“The guy you’re waiting for.”

“Um … he’s not … I mean, I’m not waiting –” my throat felt like sand. I eyed the cup, cradled in Ray’s right hand, the cold condensation dripping onto the tanned creases of his calloused fingers. I wanted a sip. But that would mean putting my mouth where his mouth had—

“Dammit!” he said. The ketchup bottle stopped in its tracks, with the gummed-up cap pointing squarely at Ray. “Off-brand crap. Now I have to kiss myself.”

I burst out laughing. I don’t know if it was a genuine reaction to the image of Ray kissing himself or a blatant cover for what my body was doing at the thought of Ray kissing … anyone.

He smiled sheepishly. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“Say what?” I recovered just long enough to impulsively help myself to a sip of his soda. I had half an urge to run the cup across my chest, just to get him to stop looking me in the eye. It was distracting. To look at him for so long.

“That I’m disgusting.”

My stomach twisted shamefully.

“I didn’t say you were disgusting,” I said, hoping he’d accept the truth that I didn’t actually say he was disgusting, but merely suggested the idea of him distracting me was disgusting, when in reality, he’d been effectively distracting me for the past twenty minutes to the point I’d completely lost track of time and kept the restaurant open five minutes longer than I needed to.

“It’s okay, Cara. I get it.” His eyes dropped to the counter. The paper cup had left a ring of water behind, and he traced it with his index finger until it thinned out and evaporated.

“Get what?” was the question I wanted to ask, but the distant sound of a motorcycle stole my breath just long enough for the words to get stuck in my throat. Long enough for Ray to leave his seat and walk to the front door, flip the closed sign, turn off the neon sign in the window, and retrieve the keys for me to lock up.

He set ten dollars on the counter with the keys.

“I’ll get your change,” I managed through the stuckness.

“Nah. Keep it,” he said. “The service was outstanding.”

I snorted and he giggled.

“Plus,” he added more seriously. “He’ll probably be thirsty… so … this one’s on me.”

I tried to thank him with my eyes, but his gaze was fixed on the ketchup bottle between us.

“Have fun on your date,” he said finally, to the ketchup bottle that had sealed his fate.

I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t a date. That I barely knew the guy. That I’d spent all day fussing over my clothes, face, and hair, waiting for him to stop by because that’s what he did every day. He was only a customer. One I’d gotten it in my head was worth my attention. But he was just a distraction. He didn’t see me. He barely talked to me. And he certainly didn’t listen to me.

Ray always listened to me.

“You too,” I said, suddenly so thirsty I thought I might die.

He smiled but his eyebrows couldn’t avoid stitching together into something less happy.

“Thanks.” He headed for the back door, and I tried to think of something incredible to say to get him to come back.

“See you tomorrow?” I called out helplessly.

“Sure thing, boob shirt!” he called back.

I stifled a laugh, even though Ray was too far away to hear it.

I helped myself to a large Dr. Pepper as the rumble of the motorcycle grew louder and eventually stopped. I rang up the two sodas and pocketed the change as a tip, all the while pretending I didn’t hear the guy I’d been waiting for all day trying to open the locked door, then knocking, then calling me “girlie” through the glass.

I set the ketchup bottle down on the counter in front of Ray’s favorite, noisy stool, and gave it a hard spin on his behalf.

I took a long sip of Dr. Pepper.

And smiled.

Photo by Lucas van Oort on Unsplash