His knuckle catches the corner of my eye, and even before the stars cloud my vision, the litany of apologies starts. He says he’s sorry he’s been drinking too much and for getting fired again. To the list of old favorites, he adds he’s sorry for dragging me down with him. What he doesn’t say echoes in my swollen ear, that he’s sorry he can’t break the cycle.
My boss, Darlene, looks me over as I walk into the break room the next morning. Her lips pucker like a pink-frosted donut, and one over-plucked eyebrow raises as she speaks: “You can’t wear those sunglasses during your shift.” I knew she’d say that. We have this choreographed routine where I show up wearing sunglasses and she pretends she doesn’t know why.
I think about protesting—tap-dancing my part of the routine—but decide against it. “Fine,” I say, removing the glasses.
“Whoa, honey, that eye!” Darlene tsks, all three-hundred pounds of her shimmying in judgment. “When you gonna take my advice and kick him out?” She looks down her nose at me like I’m too stupid to understand.
I run my timecard through the machine and slide my arms through my Frank’s Market smock. The buttons strain, but I force them through before answering Darlene. I’ve tried to explain to her that sometimes he’s just stressed and I get in the way—wrong place, wrong time and all that. Other times my smart mouth gets me into trouble. I think about telling her the truth—that his boss is an asshole who doesn’t appreciate how hard he works—but she’d probably think I was talking about her and take offense. “I don’t know, Darlene,” I say. “I guess I’ll kick him out when the wind is just right.” I walk past her toward the cash registers.
With the holidays receding in the rearview mirror, no one has money for grocery shopping. By two o’clock, I’m the only cashier left up front. My feet ache, but I fake a smile for every little old lady who comes to buy her Metamucil and cat food. Most ignore me as they snatch the bagged items from my hand as if I’d want to steal them. The few who look at me don’t even bother to stifle their gasps when they see the purple mess of my eye. “Ran into a door,” I explain and smile at one woman, but she looks away as if she doesn’t hear me.
My shift ends at three, and I count my cash drawer. Darlene watches my progress from a too-small stool in the corner of the break room. I try not to look, but her body oozes over the seat like the melted red wax on the top of a Maker’s Mark bottle. I know she can’t leave until I’m finished, but I swear she’s sitting there just waiting to preach at me some more.
Finally, she speaks: “You can’t keep comin’ to work lookin’ like that, you know.” I ignore her—pretend I’m counting change. “Customers complain, and I can’t keep makin’ excuses.”
I finish counting and pass off the drawer to Darlene. “Fine,” I say and punch out. She acts like she’s doing me a favor. She acts like I want to come to work with a black eye or a swollen jaw or a split lip. She acts like I have a choice.
I throw my red coat on over my smock, not even bothering with my sunglasses in my rush to get out of the store. My feet are tired, but I take the long way home anyway.
On my way through the park, I pass a family feeding pigeons. A little girl sits with them but apart. A breeze ruffles the dark curls sticking out below her hat, and as I pass her, I can’t help but look at her again over my shoulder. The girl catches my backward glance, looks up at my face, reads my bruises, frowns. Reflexes draw my hand over my swollen belly, and I hurry past.
I walk and walk, through the park, down a street not my own, up an alleyway, and across town, but I can’t walk her out of my head. It’s not until I’ve walked several more blocks that I realize my house keys aren’t in my pocket.
For only a moment, I consider retracing my steps to find them.
Amy Morris-Jones lives, works, and writes along the shore of Lake Michigan, focusing mostly on issues and scenery that capture the Midwest in general and Michigan specifically. With two novels currently in revision, a third in progress, and her most recent short story publication forthcoming as a finalist in the Bartleby Snopes All Dialogue Contest, she has plenty to keep her distracted as the snow piles up outside her door. She can be found sporadically at http://amorrisjones.blogspot.com/ and @amorrisjones.
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