1 Look

"Hey, your shift's about to end. One bott?" Sasha, one of my co-baristas, asked me. I was busy cleaning one of the tables in our workplace and glanced at our analog clock. 6:55. Five minutes left.

I kept on wiping the table just to kill time, and avoid her offer. This rug feels oddly cold. Who turned that AC to 22°? I placed the half-empty large cup on the tray and folded the rug into square. I just pretended that I didn't hear anything. Just as I went back to the sink behind the cashier counter, I heard my watch alarm. It's 7:00.

Whilst removing my apron, I can't help but admire the interior of this café. Coffee-brown wood planks accent the ceiling, complementing the full glass windows. The leather couches and upholstered seats set the branding of this coffee brand: strong yet sweet, with a touch of sleekness. The mixture of gentrified chairs and wooden tables completed the vibe.

"I'm still here! Earth to you please," Sasha exclaimed while wailing her arms in the air. Looking at her sideways, I noticed that her permed hair seemed a little bit dry. Did she forget to oil it up? I left her looking like that, which caught the attention of some of our customers. I rinsed the rug and placed it on the rim of the sink. Then washing my hands with soap, I came to realize how time flies. I was lost when I first got here. A 20-year-old escaping the miserable life with her drunkard and cheating father. Now, I'm 22, and nothing has changed.

As I roamed my eyes, Sasha was nowhere to be found. Maybe she got tired of waiting, or even, irritated at me for not paying attention to her.

"Still staying after your shift? Maintaining the employee of the month streak, huh," Stanford chuckled.

He's the store's manager—let me scratch that—the store's douche-y manager. He doesn't like to be address as "mister" neither as "sir". For him, we're all workers, who are getting milked by big corporations. Using Marx' Political Economy to mask your machismo, huh, Stan? Lord, I hope he'll drop the conversation. Like, right now.

"No…I, uh, just waiting for Sasha to finally leave the vicinity," I murmured while folding my apron and held it tight.

"Why? Uh, James? Kindly cater the customers. They're regulars," he then instructed the new meat of the pack. A group of BPO agents entered the shop. I'm doing my best to avoid Stan by trying to be drowned by their laughter. Hand-in-hand, a girl in crisp white polo and her friend said their orders. Five Macchiato Frappe, extra whip—three in skim milk, one in non-fat, and one in almond. I could hear Stan still talking to me. That crisp white polo looks great on her, wish I own one. Oh, those jeans? Looks like they're vintage.

I was almost got caught by An, the one in white—just A-n—and I looked away. I wonder how it feels like to have people who you could ask to have a coffee with. The rest of them chose the seat adjacent to the smoking area. Great thing that that part of the café wasn't glassed.

"Hey, I'm talking to you," Stan nudged me with his right elbow, leaning on the store's sink. Does he think I do not know the mirroring?

"Oh, yes. Uh, I…Typical Sasha, Stan. Always asking for one for the road," I replied. I stride past him, hoping that he would drop the conversation.

As I approach the locker room's door, I saw Stan following me…discreetly? I think not. I could see his reflection on the door's glass panel. I could hear my heartbeat getting louder as he comes closer. I quickly opened the door and went straight to my locker. My neck heats up as my forehead sweats. Somebody drop the AC to 16°.

I can't seem to get a grip. I could smell Stan's perfume, signaling me that he's near me. My head starts spinning. I could feel it—the vomit. Before I could taste the bitterness of my puke, I swallowed the lump; hoping it would calm me.

With shaking hands, I opened my locker and swiftly placed my apron; pretending that his presence doesn't bother me. I tried my best to keep my cool by removing my hairnet, and smoothing out my long locks.

Grabbing my tote bag and pack of Marlboro Red, I went straight out of the door. Not looking back nor bidding him goodbye. God, why is he here?

"Carmen, wait!" I heard him call my name. What does he need now?

Looking straight ahead, I dashed through the front door and went straight to the smoking area. Checking my watch, it's just 7:10 in the morning, but that encounter felt longer. As I walk towards the office's smoking area, I clutch my chest. Stopping at my usual spot, I closed my eyes and tried my best to catch my breath. I could feel my heartbeat, beating with the honking of cars in the busy street of Manila.

The sun's warmth slowly seeps through me as I feel the breeze of Monday morning. My hair flows with the breeze, gracing my sweaty scalp with some freshness. Letting out series of inhales and exhales, I finally opened my eyes. On my peripheral view, I saw Sasha: eyeing me like I was the only meat left in the wild. She blends with the wind.

"Still getting bugged by sexy Stan?" she asked, taking a long puff and exhaling it through her nostrils.

I just nodded, lighting up my first stick for this morning. I placed my bag on the chair next to my seat, and I sat slowly; wishing that Sasha would stop bugging me.

Puff.

Exhale.

Puff.

Exhale.

I reached out for my pocket and plugged in my earphones. I chose City and Colour and played Sleeping Sickness. To partially drown Sasha and her presence. I just want to be alone after that Stan incident. I closed my eyes, as I finished my cig. Over the pleading of Gordon Downie, a stifled cry was heard. I tried looking around, and saw Sasha staring blankly on the wall covering our smoking area from the public.

I suddenly felt bad for dodging her offer. But, was it bad that I chose not to? Was it really my responsibility to cater to the needs of others? Especially when it comes to their mental health.

I stopped the music and removed the earphones, then placed my phone into my pocket. Everything seems mechanical; digging into my pocket as I pulled out another stick, and lit it up. I sat beside her and offered one.

"Thanks, C," she mumbled as she accepted the offer. Her puffy eyes made her freckles appear more noticeable. Maybe it was the hormones, isn't it?

"Sorry…I, uh, dismissed you earlier, Sash," I said and joined her staring contest with the gray wall. Her tears kept on falling, ruining her blush.

"It's alright. I know that you hate Smule in the morning," she replied, emphasizing the word hate. We always have one for the road every shift, but today feels different. If she only offered rum coke.

"You know, James, right?" she asked, sniffing then puffed her stick. She blew this one too hard I could hear it.

I just nodded, and looked at her, telling that she must continue while I burn my lungs out.

"We…uh, are sort of fuck buddies. Fucking each other's brains out before our shift. Since after his training, he started hitting on me," a tear rolled down her cheeks. She slowly wiped it, tugging her clear cheeks.

"It was fun, I must say. We would fuck in the locker room, pantry, our restroom, make out here while waiting for our shift. I thought it would not last for months, but…here we are. Fucking for almost three months no. And earlier, around…three or four in the morning, his fiancée went here and talked to me," she continued, sobbing while puffing her cig in between phrases. I placed my left arm over her shoulder and gave her a squeeze.

She looked at me, tears rolling down, as I finished my second stick. She pulled out her own pack of cigarettes and offered me one. I brought my lighter out and lit hers. I watch her intently as I light mine. Her small nose, which is red now due to her excessive crying, is dripping with a snout. I fished out my sanitary napkin and placed it on top of her lap. She grabbed a paper bag from her bag and gave me a bottle of Smule. Surprisingly, it's still cold.

"Kept it chilled in the fridge. Wrapped it in a wet paper towel. It works every time," she explained. Must've been the curious look on my face.

"It's not your fault, okay, Sash?" I said. Not to appease her emotions, but to tell the truth.

"No one deserves to be treated like that. Not his fiancée nor you. You get me?" I continued.

I removed my arm and used it to hold her hand. She squeezed my hand, and I too to her. Like that, we finished our sticks whilst feeling the Monday morning madness as the gentle Amihan wind graze us.

I opened our bottles using my teeth, and we kampay the morning away.