ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴊᴀᴍᴇs

1

It's approximately two hours, forty-six minutes, and nineteen seconds until my shift ends. Not that I'm counting or anything.

Today is a Thursday, which means that our little tea shop on the corner of Elm and Whittaker streets isn't as busy as on certain days. It smells heavenly of both faint and strong concentrations of herbal, fruity, and chai aromas. The heat from the large vats from our steaming machines makes the small shop a bit humid. As much as it's unbearable to work in sometimes (especially during the summer), we frequently hear from customers that the heat and comfort from the ambiance and teas themselves keep them from the brisk winter outside. Not to mention excellent service, if I dare say. I take the ten-dollar bill my customer just handed me and make change. A receipt spits out of the dispenser, and I tear it off, handing it back with the change to the customer, giving a brief smile.

"There you go, have a nice day." The customer smiles back and nods their thanks. I turn my attention to behind the counter, where my co-worker, Beth, is working hard. An apron is tied snugly around her waist, stained by previous mishaps. Strands of her hair escape her messy bun and falls into her eyes as she tirelessly froths steaming milk, gathers and mixes herbs and spices, and concocts customers' orders without a blink. I slip the customer's order next to Beth's small stack and exchange a quick smile with her before returning to the counter.

The sun has just sunk behind the distant horizon of our hometown, encouraging the shy dusk evening to bring ominous, dark-looking clouds to shield the sky. When my shifts get slow, typically at this time of day, I find myself leaning against the counter and wondering what the clouds shielded the sky from. What do those puffs of childhood hide above their foreboding sheets of dark grey?

"Daydreaming again?" I whirl around to see Beth flashing me a knowing smirk, finishing up her current order and starting on another one. I lean back on the counter, facing her.

"Got me again."

"Well, could you daydream a little more efficiently? Like, while washing the dishes?" Rolling my eyes, I grab a nearby towel and smack her with it before heading to the large, stainless steel sink, where my washing duty patiently awaits me.

"So... I heard tonight is gonna be the night that Cris takes Mandy out to that new fancy place on East Brook?" Ah, yes. The newest item of our friend group. Beth and I have known Mandy and Cris for a long time, actually since high school. We all attend the same university, and even though each of us is studying in different programs, we all mutually make it a point to get together (along with the rest of our friend group), on spare weekends to hang out.

I still haven't decided how I felt about them being together. It feels weird, somehow. And maybe something else.

"Mm." Beth tops off another order, delivering the steaming tea mugs to a couple sitting near one of the wide windows. The bustling streets outside have now lit up, taking their cue from the darkening night. The comforting glow from the tea shop's soft, artificial lights, and natural candles casts shadows on the pavement outside, dashing flickering images from the customers onto the sidewalk. Glancing back to the couple, my eyes catch a shape on one of the customers' wrists – a cluster of circles that reminds me of bubbles, extending from the base of their wrist to arching up across their thumb. A tattoo.

As Beth briskly returns, I busy myself again with the searing-hot water and dirty teacups and suds.

"Isn't that kind of special? I mean, her parents finally consented to let them officially be a thing, you know, so Cris is gonna have to tread awfully cautiously until he can gain their trust." Beth dries her hands off with the towel tied with their apron, chuckling as she speaks.

Of course, I have seen tattoos a thousand times plus one. Everyone has a special tattoo – unique only to them – permanently scrawled on their ankle since birth. Whenever an individual falls in love with another, their lover's tattoo appears somewhere on their body. This only happens vice versa if their love was mutual. Every time I see a tattoo, my heart becomes torn into two. Part of me wants to be happy for them, but a gaping, bottomless part of me, ashamedly, feels resentful. I remember staying up long, sleepless nights and thinking, dreaming of the day when I'll finally see my tattoo on another.