No Pancakes

19 Oct

My mother bought a pancake house. The kind that serves thin brown coffee out of drip pots. The decaf drip pot has an orange handle, you so you know it’s decaf. My brother and I share a room in the back of the restaurant so that we can wake early and get to work. We don’t have our own bathroom – we have to use the customer bathrooms. Sometimes this is embarrassing. But mostly I don’t care.

The other day, a group of people I went to high school with came in to the restaurant. I tried to sneak by them on my way out of the bathroom, but my brother wanted me go see what they were wearing. I wanted to say, hi, anyway. I heard one of their husbands died recently, from a rock falling on his head right out of the sky.

I spent a long time trying to make my hair look good in the bathroom, then went over to give my condolances. They were not receptive to me. Basically, they just ignored me. I told my brother they iced me. I don’t know why they iced me. Maybe they were too sad to catch up. As I rounded the corner, I saw my ex. It was a day of long-time-no-sees. She was much nicer than the high school people. Her friend saw me and said, oh she should be your girlfriend. And I said, no that’s in the past. The ex and I hugged and she kissed me. I could tell she had a cold but I didn’t get mad. I just wiped her saliva off my face and smiled at her.

That day, I decided I would no longer work at the pancake house. Too much drama. I got on my bike and rode away without telling my mom. Thank god I don’t work there anymore.


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