Silver / clay

⊱ 12 ⊰

Glass sparkled in the half-light of the empty front-of-house. Caleb found enough space on the bar for the large, freshly cleaned, jug. The chink it made when he nudged it against another resonated throughout an otherwise silent restaurant. It was a stark contrast to how he usually experienced this space, and the change was a welcome one.

The pleasant quiet was interrupted by the far door suddenly swinging open, keys jingling erratically away from the lock. Through chair legs that rose up from the depths of hell, Caleb made out Tony, jerking through tables, alternating places with his newest female friend, as if attached to her by elastic. They giggled and stumbled closer.

"Hurry up," said the woman.

"All right, all right," said Tony, stumbling past the bar. "Help yourself. I own it all, babe, like I said." He rubbernecked through the door to the kitchen.

"It's Lahnii," she said, using her entire, and surprisingly wide, nasal capacity.

Caleb stood by as she shuffled to the wall of liquor, haphazardly snatching a bottle by the neck, and, bringing it to her mouth, stopping dead when she saw him. She hissed, annoyed, reluctantly finding the bar top, her fingers dancing unceremoniously until they found the jug he'd just cleaned.

"Out the way, moron," said Lahnii, pouring a few glugs into the capacious receptacle, not waiting for permission to gulp them down

She was dressed in a tight dress and high heels she couldn't walk in, hair bleached, cheeks powdered enough that no sword could crack them.

"What are you looking at?" said Lahnii, sniffing up her dignity in a ball of snot and swallowing it along with the drink.

Caleb tried to picture how she'd look beneath the canvas, stripped of the accoutrements of society's expectations -- or at least of what she perceived those to be.

"Who are you talking to?" called Tony.

Lahnii drained the jug of any remaining drops, the glass obscuring her face in the dim light. "I dunno, some weirdo," she said.

Caleb didn't feel even a tingle at the retort.

"Where the hell is everyone?" said Tony, returning to the front-of-house.

"They only just left," said Caleb, truthfully.

"There's still shit to do for close," said Tony, his staccato movements leading him back into the kitchen.

"What's the big deal?" said Lahnii, shadowing. "Let's just go."

"They've left me in the lurch," said Tony, switching effortlessly between intoxicated beau monde and self-entitled effrontery.

Caleb checked his wrist, realising too late that his watch wasn't with him now, remaining with his old, expensive life. He still hadn't broken the habit. Instead, he checked the neon clock on the wall, confirming that the others had already worked later than they should have, in order to make up for an absent Tony, even knowing they wouldn't get paid for it.

By the time he made it into the kitchen, Tony's hands erratically tested random burners. "They haven't swept or anything. I'll fire the lot, tomorrow!"

Caleb knew the emptiness of the threat. The staff were a good team, and Tony's dad trusted them, respected them, enough that his son had no say. But that didn't translate to a replaceable mugpuddle.

"I'll help," said Caleb.

"Maybe you'll just about keep your job, then," said Tony. "Don't just stand there!"

Caleb made for the overflowing bins. "I heard Matt say he'd sent tomorrow's orders," he said, tying up what he could before ripping off another bag.

"What's that smell?" said Lahnii, sniffing up one side of Caleb. "You're rank!"

Tony laughed, his tension eased more by the joke than Caleb's offer. "It's just the bins," he said, before his own nostrils flared. He slid to the other side of the subject. "Jeez, you really do stink."

Caleb shrunk away.

Thankfully, Lahnii's attention span was shorter than Tony. She latched onto his arm. "I'm borrred," she moaned. "My mouth is bored."

"That'd be a first," said Tony. "You never seem to shut it."

She pressed in closer and, taking possession of his finger, slowly drew it into her mouth, letting her lips glide against the skin. While sucking, she circled his digit with her tongue.

"Yeah," said Tony, with a gasp, as Lahnii's tongue flicked the tip of his finger. He licked his own lips. "Let's get out of here."

Caleb self-consciously kept to himself, tying another bag of rubbish near his station.

"Finish up," said Tony, throwing him the keys. "But don't stuff it up or you know what happens." He ran a finger across his neck, before he was pulled from the kitchen. Their erratic footsteps and broken kisses faded quickly, leaving Caleb alone.

He took a whiff of his hands, his arms, but it wasn't until he pulled the sweat-stained shirt closer to his nose that he understood the source of the smell.

He eyed the dish trough.

Naked, Caleb sprayed the fabric with jets of high pressure. His black trousers, soaking beneath, blocked the sink hole, causing the water to rise slowly. When they were clear of hard stains, he draped them on a rack and fed them through the dishwasher, cleaning and sanitising the rinsing trough while he waited.

The warm and humid air tingled against his bare skin. The moment was made more liberating with the knowledge that, by indulging in such preventative measures, he was securing the maximal sustenance for Amala. With the cycle finished, he pulled the minted results from the rack and, just like he did with the tableware, stacked them neatly. He contemplated keeping the work clothes completely clean for as long as possible, leaving the restaurant and walking without any encumbrances, back to the derelict building he slept in, where his other scraps of clothing waited, but he didn't want any unforeseen events to restrict his tithing.

Once the bins were out, floors swept, and bathrooms restocked, he grabbed the keys and headed out the kitchen. The clock beamed with pink neon glare, bright after squinting into the dim for so long. It had been two hours since Tony had left, three since Caleb had clocked out, and it would take another hour to get to his bed. It hit home how much time he now wasted, the types of activities that weren't required when he lived in the share house: securing his quarters from thieves, walking as his only means of transportation, including work and lining up for food; even cleaning his clothes was clearly a monumental waste of time.

What else could he be doing? How much more money could he be making, for Amala, if he wasn't restraining himself in this way?