What Goes Around

1 - FEET FIRST

In the blurry reflection of the carafe she saw her smile had slipped. The corners of her mouth ached from maintaining the Cheerful Minimum Wager facade but Tuesday replastered it on as she ducked to grab some napkins. She took just two seconds there, bent beneath the counter, to breathe in, breathe out–then it was show time again.

At least it was the last day she had to pretend to be happy to serve New York City's busy, entitled masses.

She was a little too good at her job, though, the faux smile too wide and splitting a tiny crack in her carefully-applied nude lipstick. The lady she was handing a steaming cup to grimaced in response and looked away, flicking through a wallet, slapping a handful of singles on the counter, and beelining for the door. The clack of her heels on the linoleum was almost as grating as her voice as she tossed a "Keep the change!" over her shoulder.

"Thanks for the generous twenty two cents," Tuesday said under her breath, scooping up the bills and sorting them in the register. Two dimes and two pennies went into the tip jar next, which is split evenly across all of the employees, which was a nice way of saying the already meek donation would be spread even thinner. She had no reason to pitch a fit over that fact though; she'd taken a summer job more for a distraction than an actual monetary need. Her and her aunt weren't rich or anything, but they lived a comfortable life, one that didn't necessitate Tuesday slaving in a coffee shop if it made her truly miserable.

No, she was just displacing her anger from things that were much harder to unravel. The perk of working there was easy access to a caffeine fix, and she briefly considered maybe she needed another espresso shot herself. Or maybe it was a sign she should lay off the stuff entirely.

She was still weighing which side of that mental tug-of-war would prevail when the bell over the door chimed, announcing it was time yet again to stop letting her mind wander. She prepared another signature please-be-nice-I'm-not-paid-enough-for-this-shit smile, but felt it froze halfway in position when she recognized the new arrival.

Old habits had her first reaction to be summoning up an autopilot mantra of, Dear Lord... but the absence of the cross she'd dutifully worn until she'd turned eighteen hung like a noose in its place. No god would take the time to listen to Tuesday Hale's pleas, surely, not after what she'd done.

At least for Carson's mom's sake, though, someone must have been in the mood to answer a prayer or two, because no recognition sparked in her own eyes. No, they were bleary and ringed with shadows, and she wasted no time getting into her order. Tuesday cleared her throat and attempted twice to ask the woman to repeat what she wanted. All the while, she had one foot in the past–a sweat and Axe body spray-scented gym, painted in flashing neon lights and the the hungry silhouette of the flames that were eating him. Him, Carson Lee. She hadn't known his name at the time, and wouldn't bother to find out what it had been for months after his death when the articles covering it were hidden on second and third pages of a search engine search. Now she knew she'd never forget his name, or the long list of others that would follow, for however long she'd be allowed to live.

She wouldn't allow herself to forget. She had them written down in a locked Notes folder, and reread it instead of bible passages every morning and night. 

"Quad shot 32 ounce Americano."

A second's hesitation and then the words finally filtered back to Tuesday through the panic in her mind. "Coming right up," she said, and fumbled with the change as she attempted to count it back to Carson's mom. They had similar eyes, not just the muddy color but the flash of impatient anger in them too. She muttered an apology and turned her back on Mrs. Lee to prepare the drink, grateful for the excuse to have a brief moment to hide. Shaking hands made it hard to pour and some coffee splashed on the counter.