I walk from the library to work. It’s not far, just a ten-minute walk going through town. I walk past the café where I handed my CV in. There isn’t a sign in the window anymore. I don’t know if this means that they have found someone or they just haven’t started calling people about interviews yet.
I look at my phone.
No messages. I guess I should keep on looking for new jobs anyway, just in case.
The town centre is empty and I walk with an unbroken stride. I don’t actually realise just how fast I am walking until I get to work fifteen minutes early and have started to itch at the beginnings of a sweat.
I take my coat off and fold it into my bag, which I then hang up in my locker in the staff changing rooms.
There’s one chef in the kitchen: it’s not Ant. Mozart isn’t there yet either. A knot of nervousness unties and reties itself in the pit of my stomach. I want them both to be here just so the initial awkwardness is out of the way.
There are a few people on their lunch break in the restaurant. I start cleaning the empty tables that occupy 60% of the restaurant. Spray, wipe in circular motions, then on to the next table.
There are two people at the other side of the room. They are not saying anything to each other. One of them pulls their phone from out of their pocket and starts stabbing at it intently; the other sighs and balances their head in their right hand.
I finish two more tables before going over to ask if everything is okay. The one balancing their head in their right hand looks up at me and says,
‘Can we get the bill, please?’
I go and get them the bill and two imperial mints on a tiny plate. They pay by card.
After they have left I go to clear up their table. On the tiny plate is a receipt for their bill, £3.65 in change and two imperial mints. I put the money in the tip glass behind the counter and put the imperial mints back with the rest of them.
My shift is only half over and I feel exhausted. My eyes feel like they don’t belong inside their sockets; like they are made out of a synthetic material that my retinas are allergic to. I rub them and try and read a newspaper at the bar. My eyes keep on wandering off the page though.
My boss comes into the restaurant and asks how my first day back is going. I ask if I can go home early and he says that it is fine and there will be enough staff to cover anyway. He doesn’t seem pissed off and I’m not sure if this means there’s something wrong.
I go to the changing room and take my bag out of my locker, then make my way out of the back entrance and walk to the bus stop. Outside, it has gotten cold. I open my bag and take out my coat.
The bus peers round the corner at the end of the road before it pulls out and comes rolling up towards me. I stick my left arm out into the road until it had stopped right in front of me. I go to step onto the bus, but some people are getting off first. An old woman that has a plastic cover over her hair is pulling one of those bags on wheels behind her. A man behind her is lifting the bag over the gap between the bus and the pavement. His back is bent so his blond hair hangs down in front of his face. A knot in my stomach unties and reties itself. He looks up at me.
‘Hi,’ I say with a certain amount of surprise.
‘Hallo.’
‘I’m going home,’ I say, lifting my hand in a half wave.
‘See you soon.’
I sit next to the window near the front of the bus and look outside. I think of how indifferent Mozart seemed to me. The same thoughts spin round in my head, but no progression is made with them. I try to think of something different, but eventually it winds up back at the same thoughts.
I look at my phone.
No messages. I guess I should keep on looking for new jobs anyway, just in case.
The town centre is empty and I walk with an unbroken stride. I don’t actually realise just how fast I am walking until I get to work fifteen minutes early and have started to itch at the beginnings of a sweat.
I take my coat off and fold it into my bag, which I then hang up in my locker in the staff changing rooms.
There’s one chef in the kitchen: it’s not Ant. Mozart isn’t there yet either. A knot of nervousness unties and reties itself in the pit of my stomach. I want them both to be here just so the initial awkwardness is out of the way.
There are a few people on their lunch break in the restaurant. I start cleaning the empty tables that occupy 60% of the restaurant. Spray, wipe in circular motions, then on to the next table.
There are two people at the other side of the room. They are not saying anything to each other. One of them pulls their phone from out of their pocket and starts stabbing at it intently; the other sighs and balances their head in their right hand.
I finish two more tables before going over to ask if everything is okay. The one balancing their head in their right hand looks up at me and says,
‘Can we get the bill, please?’
I go and get them the bill and two imperial mints on a tiny plate. They pay by card.
After they have left I go to clear up their table. On the tiny plate is a receipt for their bill, £3.65 in change and two imperial mints. I put the money in the tip glass behind the counter and put the imperial mints back with the rest of them.
My shift is only half over and I feel exhausted. My eyes feel like they don’t belong inside their sockets; like they are made out of a synthetic material that my retinas are allergic to. I rub them and try and read a newspaper at the bar. My eyes keep on wandering off the page though.
My boss comes into the restaurant and asks how my first day back is going. I ask if I can go home early and he says that it is fine and there will be enough staff to cover anyway. He doesn’t seem pissed off and I’m not sure if this means there’s something wrong.
I go to the changing room and take my bag out of my locker, then make my way out of the back entrance and walk to the bus stop. Outside, it has gotten cold. I open my bag and take out my coat.
The bus peers round the corner at the end of the road before it pulls out and comes rolling up towards me. I stick my left arm out into the road until it had stopped right in front of me. I go to step onto the bus, but some people are getting off first. An old woman that has a plastic cover over her hair is pulling one of those bags on wheels behind her. A man behind her is lifting the bag over the gap between the bus and the pavement. His back is bent so his blond hair hangs down in front of his face. A knot in my stomach unties and reties itself. He looks up at me.
‘Hi,’ I say with a certain amount of surprise.
‘Hallo.’
‘I’m going home,’ I say, lifting my hand in a half wave.
‘See you soon.’
I sit next to the window near the front of the bus and look outside. I think of how indifferent Mozart seemed to me. The same thoughts spin round in my head, but no progression is made with them. I try to think of something different, but eventually it winds up back at the same thoughts.
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