7
1185 Words
Stop it!
I clench my eyes shut.
Just stop it, Payton!
Reaching up, I drop the bill over the top of the curtain and it falls to the bathmat on the other side.
The stranger that climbed in through my second-story patio door, sat on my couch, watched my favorite movie and ate my popcorn––the man who went through my mail and learned my name, and apparently walked through my whole apartment while I slept; also, the same man who woke me up from a nightmare with his hand on my bare skin, shushing me, which should’ve terrified me, instead calming me–– stole my body wash. Or rather, he paid one hundred dollars in exchange for taking my half-used miniature bottle of body wash. A bottle I splurged on because I loved the dusky rose scent, but could only afford the smallest size.
I bite my lip.
I can buy the bigger bottle now.
My lips pull into a smile.
I should probably call the police.
My smile falters.
Filling my palm, I lather up my hands with the store-brand face wash I use. If it cleans my face, it should clean my body.
Scrubbing, then rinsing, I turn off the water and pointedly ignore the part of my brain that tells me to report the crime.
Gingerly, I set the money on my bathroom counter before I quickly swipe some concealer under my eyes.
I pretend my hands aren’t shaking as I put my hair in a quick braid, and roughly scrub a towel over my bangs so they’ll air dry somewhat straight.
Convincing myself this is just another day, I race around my room throwing on clothes, trying not to think about the fact that he was probably in this room too. He had to be. If he went through the stuff in my shower, there’s no way he didn’t go into my bedroom.
What did he look at?
What did he touch?
But I don’t see anything out of order. And I don’t find any more money in place of missing items, so I don’t think he took anything else.
Tension prickles the back of my neck as I hurry out of my apartment and down the stairs to the first floor. Rushing out of my building, I find the Uber I requested waiting for me.
Only when my butt hits the seat, and I’ve pulled the car door shut, do I glance around the street.
Like maybe he’s still out here.
Watching.
Waiting.
For me.
CHAPTER 8
Payton
My ride to work is short and uneventful, and the driver is thankfully quiet as he navigates the empty streets of Minneapolis.
It’s nice being so close to everything, but I’d love to live in a house again someday. One that’s clean. In a safe neighborhood. Somewhere with a yard big enough for a garden, and a couple of chairs. Maybe a fenced-in yard so I could get a dog.
I bet if I had a dog, he would’ve barked his head off when that guy walked into my apartment last night. I bet my dog would’ve been so protective the guy would’ve turned around and left the way he came.
The fantasy is nice, but I can’t get a dog. No matter how much I might want one.
I work too much. I have a tiny apartment. I don’t actually know how to take care of one. And none of that even matters because mostly, I can’t afford a dog. I mean maybe if it was small, and only ate a little bit, and never ever got sick…
An ache starts to form in my chest at the thought of that sort of companionship, but I shove the feeling down just as the driver pulls to a stop right in front of Twin’s Cafe. I thank him before stepping out onto the sidewalk.
Just in time.
My cheeks puff out with a sigh as I use my key to enter through the front door and walk into the brightly lit establishment.
I stuff my purse into the cupboard under the register, and I almost laugh as thoughts wander back to the dog idea.
I may only have a high school diploma, but I’m smart enough to know it’s naïve to hope. I mean in general, it’s a bad idea. Especially about this. If my past luck is any indication, I’d wind up getting a pet with a never-ending appetite who gets sick with every change of season.
“Morning,” Jean, one of the owners, greets me distractedly as she carries a tray of scones up to the bakery display.
“Morning,” I reply, shrugging my jacket off and swapping it for a plain white apron.
“Miss the bus?”
Her question surprises me since I didn’t think she noticed me through the windows.
“Yeah.” I nod.
It’s easier to just say I missed the bus rather than saying I spent the money on an Uber on purpose. And there’s no way I’m telling her, or anyone, about what happened last night. At least not yet.
Jean makes a sound that might be construed as understanding, then goes back to straightening the items in the display case.
On autopilot, I go through the motions with her––brewing coffee, counting the till, and removing the cling wrap covering the deli salads in the cooler case.
Twin’s Café is a small, but consistently busy, breakfast and brunch spot. We open at six a.m. and close at four p.m., serving coffee, deli salads, soup, and sandwiches. There’s a kitchen in the back where Tamara, Jean’s twin sister, does most of the cooking, along with Tommy. He’s an older guy that doesn’t talk much. But he’s never been mean, or grabby, so he’s basically my best friend.
“First customer!” Jean calls out loud enough to make me jump.
She does this every morning, like we all need some sort of heads up to prepare ourselves. But today I was so in my own head that I didn’t even notice her unlock the front door.
“Okay!” Tamara’s cigarette-scratched voice shouts from the back.
As always, Tommy stays silent.
When I ring up my first cup of to-go coffee, I let the normalcy pull me in. And by the time 10:00 rolls around, I’ve almost tricked myself into forgetting about last night.
“Howdy, Payton!”
I smile as I turn toward the door to watch one of our regulars walk in, his usual swagger and charm in place.
“Hey, Carlton,” I greet him.
“How’s my favorite barista?” He grins as he approaches the counter, stopping when he’s across from me.
I just roll my eyes; I’m no barista. My talents are hardly worthy of the title. But no matter how many times I correct him, he keeps calling me that.
“You want the usual?”
Carlton dips his chin. “You know I do. Gotta keep this figure.” He runs a hand down his flat stomach.
- Writer
