365 days with broken dishes.

A month after: Dirty Glasses.

"And even a filthy glass was once clean before it touched the lips of many,"
I rolled my eyes at Mr. Jergins, "You cannot sit here and compare these glasses to whores, we have to eventually serve these to customers."
"Camryn, I wasn't calling the cups whores. I was just saying, everything gets damaged at some point. No matter how many lips they kiss, no matter how many bottles they drink, they're going to get dirty."
"I didn't say I was dirty, Martin," I said using his full name with emphasis because he knew I hated when he used my full name like that,
"I said, I was broken."
"Cam," he took a deep breath, "We have to stop talking about this Ben boy. Especially to the customers, they just want to order a Coke, they don't wanna hear about December 12th."
"We don't serve Coke, we serve Pepsi," I scowled at my boss, and repositioned my hair in a bun. I walked out to table 7, Mr. and Mrs. Woods. I envied them as they ordered their usual, eggs over easy with rye toast, a side of bacon for Anne and a side of sausage links for Bobby, because every morning Anne and Bobby Woods knew exactly what they wanted. They were satisfied, content people.
Time stuck by, and each hour I served more people, ordering exactly what they wanted from the menu, a burger well done or chicken tenders with extra bbq sauce, but I never got to order what I wanted. I never got to tell anyone that I wanted the tall, brown eyed boy, with the dark hair and the freckles. I didn't get to order the apple scented cologne and the backwards beat up Giants cap. I didn't get to tell Ben I loved him, because Ben was gone. Just like Ben and I, my dreaded Monday night shift was finally over.
I walked into the back employee room, checking that the creepy dishwasher had left for home, and sobbed. I wasn't sad working at Marty's diner, hell, as an 18 year old, it's a good position; I was just sad over Benjamin. I slid down the grease covered walls, sliding my yoga pants against the cold tiled floor. The wind rolled a dirty Pepsi glass my way. I picked it up, stared at the Pepsi logo for a few minutes, as if by some weird force the letters in Pepsi would arrange to "I love you -Ben" in the exact handwriting his pre shift notes always did. It didn't. It was just a dirty glass. A dirty fucking glass.
I thought about what Marty had said as I cracked an apple ale from the fridge, was I like this dirty glass?
The week continued on, I worked my long shifts, making decent tips and shitty blisters on my left heel. Tuesday, I told the customers at Table 20 about how Ben loved the Giants, how one day when we were together, he told me he would take me to see them. They stared at me. They left me a 5 dollar tip; and I think that was out of pity.
Wednesday, I cried while telling an younger business woman the story about how Ben and I went to Carpenter's Falls for a date, and he kept falling. I think I fell almost as hard as he did that day, but not in the same way. The lady looked at me the entire time with an open jaw, and I think she began to wonder if her water with lemon was tap water or my tears. I cashed her out with her credit card, her name was Martha. Martha had eyes like Ben.
Thursday was shitty. I couldn't stop kissing boys that I knew were hitting me up because they knew I was vulnerable. I kept kissing Patrick, Carter, Michael, and I felt like a dirty glass most days, but I refused to believe I was another one of Marty's stupid metaphors he wouldn't stop using since his wife left him.
In fact, Marty doesn't even seem like a dirty glass himself, I know he has a slight drinking problem, and a hard time coming up with new recipes for the breakfast menu, but I still refuse to call him a metaphor.