your best american girl ✓

epilogue | made in the usa

20 years later

San Francisco, CA

"Charm! Get your ass over here! Where the fuck are the bandaids?" I call out from the kitchen, holding my limp wrist as blood pools from the crevice of my pinky.

My business partner and friend, Charmayne Nguyen, enters the room seconds later, whisk in hand. Letting out a loud sigh, she pulls out a cotton ball from her apron's pocket and presses it against my wound. "What the hell happened?"

"Cut myself with a knife," I grumble under my breath, watching as she sighs, puts down her cooking appliance, and heads toward our medicine cabinet fixed on the wall facing me. The rusty door creaks open when she unfastens one of the buttons, revealing rows of various medical supplies. Slamming it shut, she reemerges with a small container of rubbing alcohol and a bandaid.

"Jeez, Lee, you really gotta be more careful," she sighs, uncapping the bottle of disinfectant.

"I know," I mutter, hissing when the liquid seeps into the minor cut, "I'm such a clutz, sorry."

Using her teeth to peel open a bandaid's wrapper, she then rips off the adhesive sticker. Fingers caked in chalky flour help me wrap the cut tightly. Then, she crumples the scraps and chucks them in a recycling bin by her right foot. "Go put on a finger condom. Can't have you bleeding all over the merchandise."

Groaning, I pick open a small cardboard box she hands me with my thumbnail. "Why can't you just call them finger cots?"

"Because it's not as funny," she explains, walking towards the sink and letting the water run between her fingers. "On second thought, I want you on cash register duty."

Wearily, I frown. Charm's left leg has a slight limp when she walks, which makes it harder for her to reach for things on high shelves. "Are you sure—"

"Positive," she insists, lathering the fluorescent pink soap from the dispenser on her palms, "besides, your crusts last batch were a little too burnt."

Offended, I gasp, grabbing a broom and a dusk pan leaning against the mint titled walls. "Fine, bitch. Do it yourself."

Before she can answer, I'm out of the kitchen and in the dining area, busying myself by sweeping the polished floors. Charm and I first established this bakery in the outer Sunset district around 5 years ago. For the most part, we sell Americanized Chinese pastries, like fried dumplings or pineapple buns filled with cream. We're not a blooming business by any means, but we earn enough revenue to get by.

For some reason, the area directly underneath this corner round table is especially dirty. If I recall correctly, a group of high school students was sitting here earlier, munching on onion pancakes. I cringe when I notice that they didn't even bother to discard the plastic wrappers in their red ribbed trays. God, I cannot stand people that cannot pick up after themselves.

As I try to pick up one of the dropped silver platters, I accidentally bang my head against the corner of the table. Ripples of pain radiate from the back of my head to my temple. "Fuck me," I hiss under my breath, bringing a hand to the point of impact.

"Careful there," a voice mutters from behind me. Crap. It would be just my luck for someone to walk in while I'm not ready to serve them.

Mortified, I turn to face the stranger that has witnessed my crazed outburst. In walks a man that couldn't have been much older than I was, dressed in a black gothic graphic tee shirt and straight-legged camouflage cargo pants. Shaggy hair is kept at bay by a snapback.

"Oh, yeah," I reply, voice small, as I struggle back onto my feet. Carrying the broom, I make my way back to behind the counter, where some of our baked goods are on display through the clear glass barrier. "What can I get for you today?"