I find the layout of the multi-colored red, yellow, and white tiles cheaply glued to the counters strangely interesting at the moment. My nail scratches at one of the red tiles where the paint is chipping.
The woman on the other side is lazily rummaging through her wallet as people file into the line behind her. "I know there's a quarter somewhere in here." She mumbles, unzipping a zipper on the other side of the wallet, and shoving her thick hand into it.
I straighten my back, recovering from slouching over the counter as I start to notice people leaving. "No, no, no." I whisper, tapping my fingers on the counter, impatiently.
Rule 1 of Uncle Billy's Pretzels: No matter what, don't let customers leave without serving them. They won't come again.
"Ma'am, I need you to hurry, please. I have a long line waiting." I say, exceptionally nasally, due to the large bandage spread across my nose. I hadn't spoken all day because of it, mainly because of the look I was receiving from the lady. With the way my nose affected my voice, it hardly sounded like a warning.
She just snorts a little, then continues her search for twenty five cents. Do I need to keep paying for other people's food?
After another five minutes of digging around in her change, she settles for placing two dimes and a nickel in front of me. I shove the pretzel into her hands in return and shoo her away for the next customer. Not the best service, I know.
By the time the line is cleared and 17 pretzels were sold, my co-employee, Marissa, shows up. Right on time. My icee from the booth a few shops down is melted and remains just sour cherry syrup sloshing around at the bottom of the cup when it's time for my break.
Marissa replaces my infamous spot at the counter to resume selling, as I step out of the little shop to refill my icee. My eyes wander over to the dim-lit shop that sells clothes that are supposed to fit young adults, but are entirely too small to fit most of the young adult population. Unless, you know, they're anorexic or something. Who can blame us? We like icees and pretzels too much.
He isn't standing in front of the store, as far as I can tell. A few tan, blonde girls walk in, laughing, and a sudden feeling of insecurity washes over me. They will probably flirt with him, if they see him. They're probably good at it. Unlike me, falling off of chairs and such. I try to clear my mind of him by focusing on the three swirling liquids in front of me.
I choose the coke icee this time, taking a sip, and heading back to the bright pretzel stand that accommodates to everyone, not just skinny teens. Frustration surges through my veins, and I'm pretty sure it shows on my face and through my actions when I slam my now full Icee cup onto the counter.
"What's your issue?" Marissa asks, not even looking up from her phone screen. "Be right back." I say, as quietly as possible to avoid her response to the sound of my voice.
Each step toward the establishment gets harder, until it feels like I'm walking through molasses by the time I'm at the entrance. I almost immediately recognize his sharp features from the window. He folds a few pairs of jeans and sets them down carefully on the low, dark wood table, as I take the few steps needed to be engulfed by the smell of expensive clothes and cologne.
I'm not sure what my plan is, or where this sudden burst of courage came from, but it's happening.
The thought of talking to him again overwhelms me, but the thought of not talking to him again sends a nerve of fear through me that I haven't really experienced before.
Either way, it's too late to back out now. I'm approaching the rack of skin tight jeans facing his back.
YOU ARE READING
Pretzel Girl
JugendliteraturOf course, when you're shopping at the mall, you always have to buy a pretzel. It's mandatory shopping fuel. You can't just walk by the salty smell of the warm, baked bread and the girl in the dorky bright red hat and uniform who sells them. That wa...