Red Eye

The End

I feel two fingers press into my shoulder and I violently jolt awake.

I hear a small yelp of fright and as I blink away the sleep from my tired eyes, I find the pony-tailed barista staring at me. Her blond hair bobs from side to side as she moves her head, a look of confusion in her blue eyes.

"I'm sorry... erm..."

I recognize that look. She's trying to figure out how to address me. Is is "sir" or "miss?" My androgynous appearance has that effect on people. Everyone's so concerned with labels now, using the proper pronouns so no one gets offended. In my half-awake state and still not fully sure where I am, now doesn't really seem like the best moment to educate her about my preferences. 

After a moment's hesitation, she shakes her head, giving up on the need for pleasantries and instead states matter-of-factly:

"You can't sleep here."

I'm now conscious enough to feel a small droplet of drool dangling from my lower lip and I quickly use the back of my sleeve to wipe it away.

"Oh yeah... sorry... Must have dozed off... Sorry."

She awkwardly looks around, unsure of what to say or do next. She then nods her head, accepting my sad excuse for an apology before quickly returning to her station behind the counter.

I ease myself back into my seat and let out a yawn.

God, how long was I out for?

I look around, trying to get my bearings. My field of vision is greeted by a small group of college students furiously typing away on their phones and as I pan over to the next table, I see a flustered mother picking up her son's sippy-cup from the floor while her daughter readies herself for another crying fit. The pony-tailed barista is busy at her station, ringing out a customer who's trying to figure out how to use the app on his phone to pay for his drink. Bringing my gaze toward my own table, I'm suddenly reminded why I'm here. The blank white page momentarily blinds me, taunting me like it always does, the laptop's cursor still eagerly blinking in expectation. 

Fucking writer's block. 

Angry and still a bit groggy, I slam the lid down and pack it away along with the rest of my belongings, slipping the strap of my backpack onto my shoulder. I grab the remnants of my half-eaten croissant, wiping the crumbs into the paper baggie and notice... of course... they spelled my name wrong, and toss it into the trash. 

Well, this whole day has been a waste.

I head to the bathroom to drown the last bit of tiredness clinging to my face, hoping the cold tap might work as a last-ditch attempt to revive myself long enough to survive the rest of the afternoon. Turning the squeaky knob of the faucet, cursing the whiney nails-on-a-chalkboard sound, I plunge my hands into the sink and splash my face a few times before wiping myself clean with a fistful of paper towels. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I nearly stumble over my own feet and have to do a double-take, not recognizing the thing staring back at me. 

I know I've fucked up my sleep schedule lately, but I didn't realize it was this bad. My face is ghostly-white, almost haggard-looking; covered in lines and creases I don't remember being there before. As I press myself closer, taking in the horrific scene, I notice the deep, purple-gray bags hanging from my eyes. Shaking my head in disgust, I head for the door.

No wonder she screamed...

Damn red eyes.