Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
When the jukebox plays the last song that a customer requested, the only sound that filters around the room is the central air making up for the loss of bodily heat now that it's only the two of us. It's too quiet, too personal.
I finish wiping down the tables before heading to the back to grab the broom and mop bucket, sending a whispered thank you to Maggie who prepared the bucket for me before the end of her shift. I have no doubt she thought she was closing like she has every other shift I've worked and did this early to make it easier for herself. It's what I would've done during a lull.
He doesn't speak to me while I sweep and remains just as silent when I mop, the very last thing on the list he provided. I shove the note in my pocket before rolling the mop bucket to the back.
Once it's empty, I fight the urge to hit the door.
He's wanted to talk to me before and I just left. I've been working here for over two weeks without having to have this conversation. It's been fine. I know I work hard. I'm good at being a waitress and a bartender. It wasn't until I cussed at him tonight that he was adamant about having this conversation, and I regretted the words the second they left my mouth. My issues aren't with him. It's with every person who thinks they're helping when they're simply making me feel guilty.
With my head high, I walk toward the office. I've never been to this part of the bar before. In fact, I've mostly avoided the man since I demanded he hire me. I've wanted to avoid this very situation.
I hate the way his gruff “come in” hits my ears and makes my body perk up when I knock on the door.
Why can't I be indifferent to him the same way I am to Dr. McBride? It sure would make things a lot easier.
"This place is a mess," I say, wishing for the second time tonight that I could manage my brain-to-mouth filter I seem to lack around him a little better.
He blinks in my direction, clearly unimpressed with my evaluation of his office.
"Please have a seat," he says, pointing to the chair across from his desk.
There's a stack of paper I'd have to move if I do as he directs.
"I think I'll stand."
"I can move that," he says, standing up from behind the desk.
The tiny office doesn't leave much more room than what the desk, filing cabinet, and two chairs are taking up, but his standing has him looming over me.
"Can we just get this over with?" I ask, knowing I'm going to force him to say the words rather than taking every hint he's thrown my way since I showed up here in the first place.
Most people in town are too nice, but this man has literally crossed the street in order to get away from me. It took a lot of pride-swallowing to come here the first time and ask for an application. I should've left it at that when he never called me for an interview, but that looming stack of bills and Christmas coming soon made me push the issue.
"Fine," he says in a way that makes him seem like that petulant drunk guy from earlier who couldn't get it through his head that touching women he doesn't have the right to touch isn't okay. "Here."
I snort at the clipboard he's holding out for me.
"What is this? An exit interview?"
I pull the clipboard from his hand, already annoyed, but that irritation is replaced with confusion when I look down at it.
"An application?"
"And the W-4 under it. I need both on record."
"I already completed the application."
He pulls in a deep breath and I do my best to focus on his face rather than the way the inhalation makes his chest expand under his t-shirt.
"I can't find it," he says, pointing to the mess on his desk. "If you want to get paid, fill it out again."
I pull the stack of papers from the chair he offered and place them on top of another pile on his desk. At least the man tries to hide his smugness when I take the seat he initially offered.
I spend the next ten minutes completing the required forms, all the while still wondering if he's going to hand me my paycheck and tell me never to come back.
"We only do direct deposit," he says when I hand the clipboard back to him. "I'll need a voided check."
"No one has checks anymore," I tell him. "Besides, I don't have a checking account."
"Did you have a conversation with Maggie? Do you know how much it complicates things to be paid through CashApp or freaking Venmo?"