A flash of fiery red blazes into my peripheral vision. 

My gaze abandons the task at hand, determined to inspect it. I find almost shoulder-length hair beneath a dark blue cap that matches my own -- part of the uniform, and beneath that, a smiling face that says I have just been caught.

My fingers scramble for something, anything, that will make me look busy. I grab hold of a pen. Mindlessly, I allow its back end to drop, hitting the edge of the table again and again, painting my hand with blue ink in the process.

Twenty minutes remain for our lunch break, but sitting alone causes me to wish it was already done with. Being the slowest to make friends, I'm aware that I should not be surprised to be sitting alone on only my third shift here, but it really never gets any easier being the sore thumb in a room. Especially not when the group a few tables down is congested with coworkers who seem as if they have all known each other since birth. Red is among them. Then in a moment, he is not.

My stomach drops. My fingers return to the pen.

"I feel like we're ignoring you." Standing beside me, his height draws my face upward to meet his concerned stare. A pair of eyes the color of the world study mine. In a single second, although not once have I seen life outside of Florida, I feel as though I have travelled the globe, seen forests and oceans that I have never. Not up close.

I hand out an automated response. "I'm just tired."

A sympathetic smile graces dark pink lips. "Those are my friends."

I looked again at the group, finding myself a little overwhelmed by the loud, endless conversations. "They scare me."

He laughs. Has a seat. Shrugs. "They're harmless."

"He threw a bowl at me!"

I peek around him at the girl who shouted the accusation. She points to another one of his friends.

"Don't let them scare you," he says, his smile reassuring. "They're cool. What's your name?"

"Alana."

"I'm Dakota."

"Kota, come on, man. Time to close up." The accused bowl thrower, a tall, straight-figured brunette, waves him over before gesturing toward our workstation -- the counters, the large glass display cases (almost empty, signaling the day's end), the register, and all the machines used to produce the brand for which we worked: The Daily Grind, an up and coming coffeehouse at the heart of Lakesborough, Florida.

A long, curly haired girl of an olive skin tone rises from the table, standing beside Bowl Thrower. They appear close, in spite of the alleged assault. "Yeah. The sooner we close, the sooner we go."

Dakota's curt nod causes strands of bright red to fall astray, hiding his eyes -- one quarter brown, one quarter blue, and the rest a light green. He removes his cap and, in the process, makes a bigger mess, before raking it all back and securing it again with the company hat.

I focus on my anxiety of closing and blame that for the sudden heavy pounding against my ribcage. "This is my first closing shift."

Dakota gives a quick tilt of his head toward everyone else. They have already started and watch us with impatient expectancy. "It's easy. I'll show you."

"All right."

The next hour and a half is spent shutting the cafe down. We throw half of the food items away and date the other half before refrigeration. Then comes washing display plates, cleaning and drying out the machines, sweeping, mopping, bussing tables, and sanitizing the counters and, by the end of it all, itching to already be at home, paycheck or not.

Home is the apartment I share with two other girls -- Camryn and Michelle -- and Michelle's dog, America. Having met us and moved in two months ago, Michelle tends to keep to herself, barely accustomed to living with suitemates. I share her reservation. If it weren't for Camryn, no one would be talking.

"How was work?" she asks. Gently, I close the door and lock it behind me. Her eyebrows raise. She shuts off the television. "Well, you didn't shut it this time."

She was right. The past two nights I had shut the door, as if in an attempt to keep the shift from chasing me inside. Tonight, the only thing that I'm preferring to keep on the other side of the door are these unwelcomed butterflies. "It was okay. Better."

A faint smile flashes across her face before she jumps up from the sofa with an empty paper plate. Almost empty. What remains is a crust. "Okay, then."

"You got pizza?"

"For us to share," she says. "I thought it would be another rough shift so I wanted to treat you." I reach for a paper plate of my own. She snatches the stack of them away. "If you tell me who he is." My face feels even hotter now. Inside this seventy degree apartment, I can no longer blame it on Florida. "Spill."

"Fine."

The remainder of the night, I tell Camryn everything, all the way down to the tiniest detail about my trip around the world.