Bittersweet Moments

15 | Gelatin Cups

15 | Gelatin Cups

I absolutely hated Twenty-Four Hour Tuesday.

To explain it simply, Twenty-Four Hour Tuesday was the day of the week when the shop was open for – you guessed it – twenty-four hours. It began precisely at twelve a.m. on a Tuesday, and ended very late that night. Hence, Mom had to split shifts for the staff, so obviously I got to work for a few hours. Meaning, my sleep time was taken away from me brutally.

No, Mom didn't wake me at twelve midnight, but instead I got to work before sunrise, at five in the morning. Twenty-Four Hour Tuesday was a wonderful idea, really, because it was a time when one could get chocolate in the middle of the dark hours without wondering where to go. But when it meant working way before my wake time, I despised the event.

It was a day when coffee was a supply high in demand for both the staff and the customers.

During one of my first Twenty-Four Hour Tuesdays, I had stayed up later than my usual which resulted into my face dunking itself on a beautiful bowl of batter when I was nodding off. I had worked like a zombie those times, cooking in a daze and walking around aimlessly. I had to be thankful I haven't worked in the bathrooms during these times or else I would've napped in the stalls, my head gurgling into the toilet bowl.

Yawning, I laid my head on my fist and leaned on the counter. My eyelids were as heavy as lead, and my body refused to cooperate. Workers darted around me in the shop's kitchen, fueled by either coffee or sugar. I repeatedly slapped myself on my cheeks; I needed caffeine pronto.

Towing my feet and slouching low, I approached Mom, who was barking orders behind outside the kitchen. "I proclaim this a ridiculous idea and that I should go back to sleep," I told her straightforwardly.

She looked at me up and down, "Clip your eyes open, Ollie. It might scare the customers."

"But mother!"

Mom grabbed both my shoulders and fixed my posture to be straight. I felt like a robot. She tucked strands of hair away from my face and smoothed the wrinkles and edges of my tucked in shirt. "Go to the bathroom and wash up – and you better not take your time. Then go back to cooking. You don't want another accident, do you?"

I knew she would forever hold that against me.

But I held myself from arguing back and marched to the bathrooms, which was thankfully empty. I had already taken a hot and a cold shower, hoping one of those two could wake me up, but it was useless. I should've bathed in coffee, instead. I had even shaken my head vigorously and did a little one-minute exercise, followed by pinches on my arms.

They were all useless.

I ignored my reflection on the mirror; I already knew I looked hideous, anyway. I turned on the tap and started splashing water on my face, getting my shirt a little wet. Then, I rested my forehead against the sink, making sounds the average human was probably incapable of producing.

Finally, I was slightly awake after the stress release. I madly ran out of the bathrooms, almost knocking down a customer on the way and stopped in front of Mom, who was staring at me in amusement. She motioned to her face and I huffed and pushed the wet hair clinging to my nose and cheeks.

"You should really give me a raise, Mom," I told her, "And now that I don't look like a walking corpse – sort of – I can debate with you."

"Oliver," she tossed me an apron, "You have a new job and your shifts here are lessening. Should I really give you a raise?"