Emilia

Beep. Beep! BEEP! I slam my hand against the alarm clock, miss, and then finally succeed when it falls off the nightstand.

"Aw, I was having such a great dream." I stifle a yawn, brush away my silver hair that clings to my face in messy tangles, and throw off the covers. "What time is it—"

Shoot! I squint, wiping my watery eyes, but the clock still blinks 7:20 pm. I chuckle—I have a two-shift part-time job to blame for my screwed-up sleep schedule. Focus, Emilia. I scold myself, reaching for my phone which only confirms I've been slacking on the job for the past ten minutes.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I mutter as if my boss, Hina, can hear me through the phone. Well, I certainly can hear her shouting at me from the texts, all-caps.

Swinging open the closest, I pull the red collared shirt over my head, the complementary black slacks that hug me in all the wrong places, and top it off with a standard visor cap. Eh, not a bad fit. I shove the covers into a corner, brush the stray locks out of my eyes, and sprint out of the apartment to the subway.

Streams of people flood the station, eyes baggy and bloodshot from a long day's work. I must be a funny sight to them, face flushed and hair whipping behind as I slip through the sliding doors. The last of the sun's rays dip beneath the window as I slump against the plastic chairs. Outside, the grassy suburbs slowly give way to towering skyscrapers, and the train screeches to a halt a few minutes later.

"Next stop..." The automated voice crackles on the intercom. I smooth my shirt before stepping out.

The wind whips at my face as I glance at my phone, the blue glow illuminating the little night around me. Friday, 7:30.

Blinking signs reaching out from the mesh of buildings on both sides cast an eternal liveliness on the city, which at night, only seems to have woken up. The buzz of conversation and movement brush against my ears as I weave through the crowd. I'm no stranger to city life, but to the people who live here, I'll never get how they deal with the noise at night.

"Sorry!" I yell as I shove past a couple, whose kissy-eyes shift into daggers at me.

Disheveled, and out of breath, I spot the familiar golden arches and stagger into the restaurant through the employee entrance. The front entrance—well, let me put it this way. You'll never get within ten feet of it at seven.

"Emilia!" Hina grabs me by the shoulder as I slink into the kitchen, her black hair in a neat bun, not a crease on her uniform. "What are you doing here so late?"

I rub my neck sheepishly, not daring to meet her piercing gaze. "Sorry, I just... overslept. I promise it won't happen again."

"Yada, yada. Oversleep again and I'll oversleep on your paycheck." she slaps a thick notepad into my hand. "Get over to the cashier and take care of these orders."

My eyes nearly water as I glance at the notepad—a staggering amount of orders in Hina's illegible chicken scratch. Can I file for cruel and unusual punishment? I chuckle, and head towards the cash register.

I sigh, my nose wrinkling as the aroma of greasy fries and seared buns wafts through the air. Nights like today are our busiest hours, with crowds lining up for a quick bite. A crackling radio hums between conversations, occasionally drowned out by my voice cutting through the din.

"Order 57! Big Mac meal with a large Coke and medium fries for John!" I call out.

"That's me. Thanks." The man walks up to the counter and I slide the tray towards him.

Working at a fast-food restaurant is, well, fast-paced. Even after a year here, my body never seems to catch up with some customer's rapid-fire orders, one after another like a machine gun. I'm surprised it hasn't given me a headache yet.

You know how some people hate customers who wait until it's their turn to decide on their order, and then spend minutes mulling over it? Well, call me biased, but they're the only reason I even get a chance to catch my breath.

"C'mon, hurry up!" yells someone in the line. "Do you not know how to read a goddamn menu?"

The woman in front of me shakes her head silently, hugging her coat tighter. It falls to her knees, heavy and worn like a hand-me-down. "One Happy Meal for my daughter, please."

I nod, punching the numbers into the cash register. "That would be seven ninety-nine, ma'am."

"Eight dollars?" Her eyes widen. She fishes through her wallet, hoping to find a crumpled ten she missed earlier, maybe a coupon even. But it's as empty as the look in her eyes. "Surely there's a discount for children, right? There's Free Fries Fridays today."

"That only comes with a minimum one-dollar purchase," I say quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Why can't we get the Happy Meal?" The little girl's head bounces up and down, her hands barely peeking over the counter.

"Tomorrow," her mother whispers, unsure of the words. "I'll get you one tomorrow."

"You said that yesterday," she whines, pointing a stubby finger at me. "Why does she have to be so mean? Everyone else gets dinner, but we don't."

"She's just doing his job, sweetie." Her mother pulls her towards the tables. "Come, let's take a seat over here."

As I watch them, something gnaws at the knot in my stomach. It isn't pity; instead, I'm seeing my mother and I a few years ago, sitting at the same table. Ever since my father left, it was just the two of us, and McDonald's was our home. She would read stories to me like any other kid, kiss me goodnight, and make sure I was always full.

She loved me, but I never gave an ounce of it back. There was always something for me to complain about, always something she couldn't get. I loved McDonald's though, and I came back after she died, hoping to relive the happy memories.

I didn't know the sad memories would come with it, too.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" A voice next to me rips me from my thoughts. I turn and a man, blonde hair slicked back, lips curled into a sneer, shoves a large cup of soda onto the counter.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"One of your incompetent friends planted a strand of hair in my soda. I would like my money back."

I cock my head, but the only hair I see is his reflection in the otherwise clear cherry soda. "I'm sorry, sir, but the soda—" But before I can finish the sentence, he leans over the counter and tips over the cup. I can only stand there, cheeks burning like my leg, as the freezing, red soda slithers down my pants.

He lifts it back, peering into the empty cup. "My apologies. I must have mistaken the hair to be mine."

"You..." I don't know whether to smash my fist into his face or cry.

"What's wrong?" He smirks, imitating my voice.

It hurts. I want to cry, curl up into a ball and cradle my leg, but I can't seem to move. Hina rushes by me, and only now do I feel the piercing stares and the hushed voices that stab right through my empty heart. "What's going on here?"

The man waves his hand nonchalantly. "Oh, it was nothing. But I should let you know your waiter had a little accident."

Hina glances at me, eyes welling with anger mixed with pity. But she doesn't slap him or tell him to leave—just offers her apologies over and over again.

I sit down on the bench in the changing room, wincing as the soda sticks to my skin, and finally let the tears out. My wallet tumbles out as I wipe my pants, the wrinkly photo fluttering to the ground. The little girl inside is crying, too, after dropping her ice cream, but her mother holds her hand tightly.

"I miss you, Mom," I whisper, but I know she can't hear me.

The door clicks open and before I can wipe my eyes, Hina throws herself onto me. "I'm so sorry, I should have... Are you alright?" she pulls away and the sugary liquid dribbles off her shirt.

"Hina..." I start to say, staring horrifyingly at her stained uniform.

My stomach nearly flips as she runs a finger along her shirt and shoves it into her mouth. "A tad bit sweet," she murmurs and I can't help but chuckle, too. "What's that?"

"This?" I trace my finger along the photo and hug it close to me, afraid of losing her again. "I-it's just a picture of when I was little."

My eyes slip to the ground, not daring to meet hers, but she doesn't press on. "Aw, you looked so cute then. Ha, you're still cute," she says, squeezing my cheek. "C'mon, we're closing soon." Her eyes soften. "Let's clean this place up so we get some rest, alright?"

I nod, tuck the photo back into my wallet, and join the rest in the dining area. It's a mess, tables strewn with leftovers and forgotten belongings, but the promise of sleep is enough to fuel us for another hour.

"Y'know, what's the point of cleaning a mess if it's going to happen again?" Kenta, one of the chefs, says.

His brother, Ken, laughs, shoving him with a wet mop. "The point is to get your lazy ass off the couch for a few hours."

"Man, shut up." A deep shade of red crawls up Kenta's neck, his face turning into a tomato as chuckles lift the dreary atmosphere. "Anybody else?"

"Maybe..." The words leave my mouth, but I don't try to take them back. I look down at the grimy floor, and see myself in the tiles. Broken, held together with cheap glue. "Maybe so the mess doesn't get any bigger."

"Exactly." Hina flashes me a thumbs up, and just when I think her bossy facade has dropped, she gets back to yelling at us. "Now c'mon, are we some group of depressed slackers?"

"Well, we kinda are?" Kenta ventures.

"Wrong!" Hina taps a finger on his chest. "We are honest men and women working an honest job for honest pay. This mess isn't gonna clean itself, and none of you are going home until it's spotless."

Groans erupt from all of us, but to Hina, there's no difference between a disgruntled yes and an over-the-moon-for-you yes.

Another hour and fifteen minutes later, not a streak of grease is left on the table, the floors mopped to a mirror shine.

"See you all tomorrow," I mumble as I step out the door, and back to the subway. I get a couple sleepy murmurs in response.

The station is barren save for the night shift workers, and the gentle sway of the train doesn't rock me to sleep as I watch the terrain shift back to the suburbs. I trudge up the steps to my apartment, the complex sagging as though it's dreary after a long day.

I almost drop the key fiddling with the door knob. Light floods out of the room, and I wince. Well, isn't that just great? I forgot to turn off the light. My eyes are fine, but the energy bill isn't going to look pretty.

Too tired to take a shower or even check my phone, I change into a loose-fitting sweater and a pair of sweatpants and slump against my bed.

Some nights, I sleep like I'm dead, others like a fish flailing in the air. But tonight, I can only stare out the window, at my shaky reflection trying not to cry.

Author's note:

The short story 'Happy Meal' was inspired by part of this and 04.