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It’s after 7:30 p.m. and I still haven’t eaten dinner. This will be true almost all the days of my adult life. It’s not a conscious lifestyle choice as much as it’s a side effect of chronic ill-preparedness and absent-minded forgetfulness. Self-care will not be on my radar for another several years.
And so, growling stomach clenched in one hand, I open the industrial fridge with the other. Several dozen store-bought bagels are lounging around in the loft of the upper shelf. Below them, jugs of cold brew and gallons of milk mingle in segregated groupings. I interrupt the harmony of the dirty fridge — which I should be cleaning in my down time — when I reach my hand wrist-deep into an untied plastic bag and pull away a cinnamon raisin dinner.
I’m carrying a bagel bare-handed as I come through the swinging doors to the front of the house, which is a bad look for the lady that’s coming in last-minute. Because her tardiness irks me, and because I need a civil place to put the bagel, I will trek the length of the counter all the way to the paper plates before I say a syllable to this person.
When at last we speak she is friendly and I feel bad. I soften to her as she asks me about my day and tries to make conversation about something allegedly hilarious that one of my coworkers said earlier in the week.
While she talks she smiles the grin of a charming student who loves to cut class. She looks out with wide, alert eyes and heavy mascara. Her hands are tucked stiffly into the pockets of her turquoise hoodie. She’s so tall that she sways in the breeze of the HVAC vents.
“Is it still raining out there?” I bring up the weather despite myself. How dare I.
“Yeah,” she says, eyes widening even more. “It’s been pouring all night. We needed it though.”
Everyone always agrees: we needed it.
I snap a lid onto her regular drink, an iced caramel and vanilla latte, and slide it across the counter.
“Sorry I interrupted your dinner,” she says, her grin now looking a little panicked.
“Oh! Oh my gosh. It’s totally fine… I like your nails!” I’m complimenting my way through repentance.
“Thanks,” she says, opening a straw and then spreading her fingers out before me, the straw wrapper pinched between her right index and thumb. The nails are long and square, and painted in a hot prink and orange ombre. “I just got them done yesterday at that place on Mitchell. You ever go there?”
“No.”
“They’re really nice. And cheap too!” She tosses the straw wrapper away and points to some cash on the counter. “You can keep the change.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“I’ll see ya,” she says, walking out the door.
Before I can insist that she have a good night, she’s out in the noisy downpour. Cold wind whips through the open door to the back of the counter where I stand next to my bagel. I no longer see the appeal in toasting, buttering, and eating this cold pastry. I push it into the trash. I am rude and hungry and I shall remain so until tomorrow at the earliest.