The Help Wanted card said any position. You took it down at the door and walked in. The manager was a small woman with cat-eye glasses who looked you up and down once, smiled, and pointed at the back booth. She set down a tall glass of something green and said it was customary for new hires.
You finished it. The glass was sweating on the saucer. Your throat went warm — then your chest went warm in a way that wasn't from the drink. The booth's upholstery felt tight along your back, as if your shoulder blades had moved closer together. You looked down. The buttons on your shirt were pulling.
You undid one, then two, and saw the cloth straining across your chest. Your skin was turning a light pink. You reached up to your shoulder, and your hand brushed the nape of your neck. The sensation sent a sharp tingle through you. You tried again. It was like touching someone else's neck. The hair you brushed was longer than it should have been. It was soft. It was going pink at the ends.
Then the manager was back. She slid into the booth opposite and pushed a folded apron across the table. The apron was white. Lace ran along the edge. A starched headband sat on top. "Try it on, sweetheart. The first day's the only hard one." She said it like a line she had said many times before.
You stood up because she was waiting. Your jeans had stopped fitting. Your reflection in the dark window across the booth showed pink at the roots of your hair. You felt the roughness of the apron strings between your fingers. The espresso machine hissed somewhere behind the counter. The green glass was still sweating on the saucer.
***
The bell on the cafe door rang. A man in a charcoal coat walked in like he had been here before. The manager pointed at your booth without looking up from the register. He nodded at her and slid into the seat across from you. "You're the new one," he said. It wasn't a question.
He had grey at his temples and a wedding ring he was already twisting off into his pocket. He looked at you the way men look at a dish they have ordered before. Then he moved to your side of the booth, and then onto the floor under the table. "I'm going to put my head under your skirt," he said. "When I do, I want you to keep talking. Just act natural."
You held the menu in front of your face. The lacquered surface stuck to your fingers. His mouth was on you under the table. The espresso machine hissed somewhere behind the counter. The booth bench creaked when you shifted. His hands were on your knees. Your breath caught and your legs tensed.
Then the thought arrived in your head fully formed, and it wasn't yours, and then it was. This is good, the thought said. The right thing. You remembered what you used to think. The old self watched from somewhere small, and then from nowhere. You felt yourself go wet. You were close. You came against his mouth without making a sound.
He stood up from under the table and brushed off his coat. You smoothed the apron over your thighs without thinking about smoothing it. He left a folded bill under the saucer and walked back out into the rain. The bell on the door rang again. The green glass was empty.