Resentment, To Go

Allowing my eyes to wander down onto my patch-work denim jeans, I notice two, very colorful, stains. On one side there is bright yellow mustard that I accidentally sprayed while making a bagel and egg sandwich for a customer. The other side is reddish-brownish from my blood, having sliced my finger earlier while cutting a garlic bagel and subsequently fucking up the order.

Today my boss asked me if I even enjoyed working at Sunshine Coffee. I lied and told her yes (I almost always lie in tense situations, an awful yet somewhat uncontrollable habit I've developed over the years).

"Why?" I asked, as disconcertment materialized in the form of a lump in the back of my throat.

"Because you always seem so...tired," she replied, as if it were abnormal for a college student to be tired at 6:15 on a Sunday morning. "You're always complaining about how tired you are to the other employees and it's really starting to bother me."

"I -- I guess I'm just not a morning person." What I meant to say was that I guess I'm just not a "mourning" person. If I told the other employees how I really felt about this job then they would probably call security. Instead, I let "I'm tired" suffice, considering it more or less of a gift to those around me.

"Well, then why are you working here?" A good question. Arguably the best question I had ever heard her pose. "Last week it was the concert and now you're screwing up orders for god knows what reason. You're really costing me a lot of money, Natalie. Maybe you should consider working somewhere else."

Already having reminded her twice this shift (I've been working at Sunshine for about 3 months now) that my name is Natasha, I didn't even bother correcting this mistake. I wanted to just throw my head back and let out a million profanities stream out of my throat. I wanted to tear the "eggy bagel" I was holding in two so that both arms could feel the warm drip of yolk as my hands squeezed the living protein out of it. I wanted to hijack the mustard and smear, "I quit" all along the walls of the store and then sign it Natalie. But all I did was mutter a lame and nearly incomprehensible, "sorry." Then I sliced my finger.