Beneath My Apron
Good morning!
How are you?
Fine.
What'll it be today? A coffee? A latte?
Hot? Iced? With sugar? Of course
Will you be using your card?
Thank you, come back soon!
Good morning!
Great! How are you?
Fine.
What will you be having? For here?
Thank you, see you again!
Good morning!
How are you doing? Oh, that's good.
How am I?
Fine.
I'm fine.
I'm fine behind this grin held up with caffeine and sleeplessness from nights spent studying, trying to claw my way up the class ladder
Fine with the burns and lacerations that are merely an occupational hazard
Fine that I stay because I can't live without the health benefits
Fine that I stand here parched, serving beverages for hours without one to call my own
Fine with coworkers who can't afford to take a sick day and customers who bring their sickness in with them, looking for solace in a hot mug
Fine that I can't afford the food I sell
Fine that I make more than minimum wage but less than a livable one
Fine that I have to pay to park anywhere safely near my job
Fine that I still have to wait that extra fifteen minutes to be sure that catcalling asshole isn't waiting in those thirty feet from my car to the door
Fine that no one followed me inside the store
Fine that no one followed me home
Fine that I'm paid to smile and be a doormat
Fine.
Here's your coffee. That'll be $1.75.
Thank you, come again.