Is she coming back? I don’t know. I slip the application form into my tote, planning to fill it out later, and I drift to the community board to scan the postings, hoping to find a less stressful opportunity.
Someone has lost an angry-looking purebred Persian cat called Mr. Snookems. The reward is greater than a week’s pay at Feed Your Hungry.
A cleaning service will wash windows using environmentally friendly products. They don’t hire illegals yet charge less than minimum wage.
For five dollars I can learn how to stuff envelopes for money. I can stuff envelopes and I do need money. I pull off a tab, the contact information neatly printed, a post office box number given as the address.
“Why couldn’t we leave the bags in the car? You have me loaded up like a pack mule.”
I hear Michael Cooke’s deep voice behind me and I stiffen.
The last time I saw my stunningly handsome coworker, I rejected his romantic advances. As we work together at Feed Your Hungry, I know I’ll have to face him on Monday.
I don’t want to face him today. I stare intently at a posting for at-home bikini waxes, calling upon my power of invisibility, a power I’ve perfected over the years.
“Just carry them, son.” A woman sighs dramatically. This must be Michael’s movie star mother. “I didn’t bring you along for your good looks.” Other women laugh and a wave of perfume sweeps over me. Shopping bags brush against my bare calves.
I slide my gaze to the left. Michael leans over the barrier between the ordering and dining areas. His khaki pants pull across his shapely ass and his wide shoulders stress a navy blue hemp shirt. Birkenstocks are on his tanned feet. He plops a half dozen high-end shopping bags on an empty tabletop
A trio of blond-haired women fill the seats, chattering happily, cosmetics and plastic surgery supplementing their aging beauty. One woman’s face is stretched unnaturally tight, giving her a catlike appearance. Another woman’s forehead is eerily smooth, her range of emotions limited. The third woman smiles at Michael and I catch my breath, the family resemblance unmistakable.
Michael’s drop dead gorgeous mother has his sky-blue eyes, golden tan, and blond hair. She doesn’t have his casual style. She’s impeccably dressed in a simple white sheath dress, the impossible-to-keep-clean designer garment accentuating her generous bosom.
I glance down at the faded tank top clinging to my small breasts and take a step toward the door. I should leave. The manager will never have time to talk to me, not with the crazy day she’s having, and I don’t want to meet Michael’s mother looking the way I do, like someone unworthy of bussing the table she’s sitting around.
“No more changing your orders.” Michael laughs loudly, shaking his index finger at the ladies. They twitter, clearly enjoying his teasing, and he saunters toward me. He looks perfect, stunning, and I hold my breath, my heart beating wildly, my mind spinning. What should I say to him? Should I mention Friday’s kiss or should I pretend it never happened?
Michael joins the end of the coffee line, standing close enough for me to reach out and touch. He runs his fingers through his shaggy blond hair, takes his phone out of his pocket and stares down at the screen.
He doesn’t see me. My powers of invisibility hold. I exhale and my shoulders slump. I should feel relieved. I don’t. I feel disappointed.
Michael orders four organic ice teas, each one a different flavor. He pays more for those teas than I spend on groceries in a month, leaves a monstrous tip, and returns to the table. The ladies send him back to the counter for organic artificial sweeteners, stir sticks, and lids.
Finally, Michael settles into a chair, the wood slab seat sagging under his weight. He tips a dome-shaped container over his ice tea and empties a hive worth of golden honey into his beverage.