The clanking of dishes and a loud "Ah, shit!" snaps me out of my reverie. I look up from the coffee-stained countertop and watch as Sidney, my boisterous coworker, struggles to clear a booth in her section. As expected, no one in the surrounding booths bats an eye. If you've ever dined at RJ's, even if only once, you can usually find Sidney clambering around from table to table, cursing loudly when she drops a dish or two. Which still to this day confuses the hell out of me since she's worked here longer than any of us, yet still clumsily causes the most messes.

I don't bother to help her, knowing that if I even take a step in her direction she'll bite my head off.

While I tend to keep to myself, I couldn't help but allow Sidney into my inner circle. Granted it was a very small circle, but if I had to consider anyone close to me a best friend, it would be Sidney.

I don't hesitate in jumping down her throat though when she rounds the corner and angrily tosses the plastic bin of dishes into the window behind us. Anthony, head cook, shoots her a confused look. I don't blame him; very rarely does she have an off day like this.

"You good?" I ask her. Sidney is usually so upbeat and energetic it's almost annoying. She reminds me a lot of Savannah in that sense; always excited and in a good mood.

"I'm pissed," she says lowly, her southern twang reverberating around us, "I am so god damn pissed off that I could choke slam someone."

I pause from tightening the black apron around my waist and dramatically take a step back. "Someone? Or just Lincoln Matheson?" I tease.

"Don't start," she huffs, rolling her eyes at me.

I snort, wiping the sweat off of my forehead and dig a five dollar bill out of my apron. Anthony pockets the cash and salutes me as he continues cooking and frying up food. Sidney notices and flips me off as I shoot her a teasing smirk. Sidney and Lincoln were always having problems, and every employee on the payroll knew that and used their relationship problems as an opportunity to make a few dollars. Sometimes Sidney herself even places bets on when she thinks their relationship will crumble next.

Love, huh? Is that what they call it these days?

I glance over at Sidney, raking my eyes over her dark, flushed skin, messy hair, and rumpled white t-shirt. Lunch ended about fifteen minutes ago, and it had been a hectic hour of delivering the daily special to every table and booth in the building.

My own white t-shirt is suffocating and tight against my chest, and I'm sure I probably have sweat peeking through the thin fabric. My jeans chafe against my thighs, my face sweaty and my dark hair hot against the nape of my neck, not to

mention the fact that my feet are killing me.

My shift here ends at three, but lucky me, I also have to work a four to ten shift at the dive bar downtown tonight. That barely leaves me an hour to get changed from one uniform to the next, and God I wouldn't be surprised if both of my feet completely fall off after today. I usually try not to work two shifts in one day, but the bills are kicking my ass at the moment. However, no matter how much I gripe and complain, I'll take on anything that becomes available to me right now.

The loud chiming of the bell above the front door stops me from any further interrogation about Sidney and her on-again off-again lover, and I take that as my cue to fish my notepad from my apron and slap on a small, fake smile. I'm sure it looks more like a pained grimace, but the customers that dine here only care if the food and service is good.

RJ's has slowly simmered down as the hustle and bustle of the lunch crowd clears out, making it easier to breathe and zip past tables without tripping over anyone.

The customer doesn't look up as I approach her table. She doesn't acknowledge my "You ready?", doesn't thank me as I take her menu and place her order, or even as I bring the meal to her table. I'm not bothered. It's easier this way.

I'm not one for mindless chit-chat or faking interest in how a stranger's day has been, and if that makes me a cold-hearted bitch, then so be it.

I've survived the last twenty-one years of my life like this just fine, and I want it to stay that way.

——

Earlier today I found it amusing when Sidney had verbally expressed her frustrations while on the job. But now, I can't help but match her anger.

My shift ended twenty minutes ago, and as Sidney so gracefully put it—I am so god damn pissed off that I could choke slam someone right now.

I had worked at O'Nelly's, an always busy, swanky dive bar in downtown Memphis, for a long damn time. I was accustomed to the loud music and handsy customers. Hell, I willingly put up with it because the tips were so good. I usually handled the cocky assholes with enough snarky venom that they eventually got tired of trying and left me be.

Tonight, it got out of hand.

I was minding my own business. Obviously. Anyone within two feet of me could see that. I was here to work, and I typically made a lot of money from my shifts here. My tight, cropped t-shirt usually took away from my permanent resting bitch face, but tonight, a gangly-toothed douche bag in a white polo wouldn't take no for an answer.

After numerous attempts to slip his hand into the back pocket of my denim cut-offs, no matter how many times I had slapped his grimy hands away, he still had the nerve to act surprised when I punched his ugly ass in the face.

So now, twenty minutes after what was now my last shift ever at O'Nelly's, I find myself filing a police report at Memphis PD.

The motherfucker had tried to press charges, and he probably would have if the cop in front of me had believed his shitty story. Surprisingly enough, the justice system was on my side for once. Still, the altercation had taken place at O'Nelly's, and I had to document what happened from my point of view. Even though he'd most likely be bailed out by morning, the snobby asshole would sit in a cell for at least a few hours—charged because he provoked the fight and lied to officers.

I took my termination of employment and the $100 in tips in my back pocket in stride. Searching for a new part-time job was going to suck, but hopefully I'd find something fast.

All I know is that I am so over today. Sidney would get a kick out of this when I clocked in tomorrow.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket as I finally walk out of the police station, purse in hand and an annoyed scowl on my face.

A quick glance at the screen tells me that it's Savannah calling from the landline at home.

Her voice cuts off any introduction I had sitting on the tip of my tongue and she wastes no time in asking, "When will you be home?"

Shit. I furrow my brows and drag a hand down the side of my face as I start down the sidewalk. Save for a few homeless guys chilling in front of a gas station across the way, the streets are empty and quiet, and the humid Memphis air is stifling.

"What'd she do?" I groan.

She huffs into the speaker and I can picture her rolling her eyes, "Knocked over the big glass ashtray and puked all over the coffee table. I almost up-chucked while cleaning it. Right now she's sitting in the tub fully clothed. With the shower running. Please hurry."

I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. "On my way," I end the call and shove my phone back in my pocket. I'm so pissed I don't know if I want to scream, cry, or both.

Dad only officially left mom six months ago, but this mundane, exhausting routine has become such a constant in my life that it's hard to remember a time where I didn't have to babysit a grown woman.

I feel bad that Savannah had to deal with her shit after a long day of school, but I'm grateful that she was there to help.

As I get closer and closer to our small, worn-down house, I have the sudden urge to turn around and skip town like dad did. It feels like the weight of the world is sitting on my shoulders, and it's slowly dragging me down under.

Sometimes I take pride in my ability to feign nonchalance and let the bad shit that happens in my life roll off my back, but it's getting harder to ignore.

Right now, it feels like I'm a ticking time bomb—there's only so much I can bottle inside before I completely burst and lose my shit.

I make my way up the rickety front porch and through the front door. The faint smell of vomit lingers around the living room as I toss my purse in the recliner and toe off my high-top converse. Peeking into the kitchen, I find the evidence of a microwaveable TV dinner box that Savannah forgot to throw away. I relax a little, knowing that she's eaten something. I don't bother stopping by her bedroom, and instead I make my way to the bathroom.

The mirror is fogged up with steam, and my mom sits on the floor of the tub, fully clothed like Savannah said. I sigh and turn the shower off.

I help her stand, strip her of her clothes, and refill the tub with the little bit of hot water still available. Mom says nothing as I wash her hair and body, and doesn't even look at me when I drain the tub and hold out a towel for her. She takes it silently, wraps it around her body, and pads to her room.

I lean forward, head hanging, hands tightly gripping the bathroom countertop. I stand there quietly. I try to catch my breath, slowly breathing in and out while I count backwards from one hundred in my head.

Eventually, I stand up straight, take my dark hair out of the messy ponytail I had it in, and run my fingers through it. I take my time washing the makeup off my face, my dark, lifeless green eyes staring back at me. I brush my teeth, peek into Sav's room to say good night, and walk to my room.

With my appetite gone, I don't bother fixing anything to eat. I simply turn on my bedside lamp and undress.

Wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties, I plug my phone into the charger beside my bed, collapse tiredly onto the mattress, and pull my duvet over my exhausted body. I flip the switch on my lamp, basking the small room in an empty darkness. Within minutes my face is pressed into my pillow and I'm dead to the world.

——