something else,, quackity

i

It's almost like the minute hand is taunting me.

Centered on the wall to my left, it smirks at me, the artificial lights above casting a fluorescent glare on the clock's glass surface.

Unblinking, I scowl back, but it retaliates by continuing to rotate at the speed of an anti-gravity snail.

I would punch it, but this job is my financial lifeline. Plus I'd probably miss it by a mile with my aim.

But it's getting there. It must be.

Eleven minutes. Just eleven goddamn minutes until I can get out of this greasy prison and rip off this stupid uniform that makes me look like an emo schoolgirl in gym kit. My shirt sticks to me in the boiling heat, the synthetic threads clawing at my skin as if the constant stream of shouting from the kitchen and high-pitched babble of the high-schoolers at the corner table isn't headache-inducing enough.

A billow of smoke from the next batch of quesadillas seeps into the cramped area behind the counter, masking the clock like it's about to make some kind of supervillain exit, but I don't let my gaze falter. It's so close, so, so, so close...

The door gives a telltale groan, and I match the sound.

"Hey! Pay attention out there!" comes the usual squawk from the back.

"Why don't you pay me," I mutter, shoulders slumping as I wipe some fingerprint marks off the register with a napkin that I found beside me.

Fixing my usual customer-service smile on my face, I stand up straighter — pretending to be somebody I'm not is something I'm very familiar with — and look up at whoever just walked in.

Uncomfortable. That's the first word that comes to mind when I see the guy's face. Phone clenched to his ear and other hand slid in his pocket, he meanders across the gritty tiled floor, casting a quick glance to the virtual menu as he hisses into the speaker. His shoulders are hunched beneath a maroon hoodie, brow furrowed beneath his dark hair, ruffled from walking against the wind.

It's kind of cute, though. And I'm suddenly conscious of my own disheveled appearance; damp tendrils of hair are escaping my two braids and clinging to my forehead, my branded cap is fiercely jammed on (lopsided and backwards — my favourite combination), and my battered nametag droops off the polo shirt that's supposed to be the right size but still doesn't fit me.

As if he can hear my thoughts, he darts his gaze towards me, and suddenly the mouldy old light above his head —  the same one that's been out of order for about three hours — flickers back on.

This man does not literally have his own spotlight.

Freaked out too, he looks up, and then back to me. Perhaps it's because it's so late, or I'm still tired from barely sleeping last night, but the alarmed perplexity in his eyes is so funny that I have to duck my head to avoid dissolving into giggles.

To my surprise and relief, he cracks an awkward smile and a chuckle too, and moves forward to the counter.

Oh. My God. Even his eyes smile. They crinkle upwards in little half-moon curves, their deep colour framed by dark lashes and-

Ew. Stop getting carried away, brain.

"Welcome to Chipotle!" I force out. "Ready to place your order?"

Before he can speak, the tinny voice on the other end of his phone starts screeching.

I don't catch much of it apart from a cackle of laughter and something like "Are you speaking to girls?" and "Get me a tak-ko."