Page 6 of Then Came You

"Do not!" I spit, bumping his shoulder with mine. "If I wanted soup, I would have offered soup."

"What are you doing later? Cin and I are going to Ivy if you’re free?" He goes about making our noodles.

Sometimes I feel like the third wheel because of how different I am from them. Xan never treats me that way, but I get the feeling with Cin that I can cramp her style.

She texted to let me know of the last-minute plans, but truthfully, after an entire day on my feet, the last thing I want to do is doll-up and dance.

I mentally calculate how long it will take me to get home tonight. I live in the west and work in Newtown, meaning it is a 53-minute direct train ride and an express bus, or an hour and 30-minute trek home via an all-stops train and two buses. If I end up lucky, hopping on the direct line will mean I get home at approximately 9.30 if we close at 8 on the dot, and I practically sprint to the station. If I miss both public transport options, I can always fork out $220 for a taxi.

My commute sucks.

It’s true what they say, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer - even when it comes to health. I bet no rich person ever had to struggle to pay for medication or were worried sick about whether they literally had to choose between barely surviving and death.

I try to be a positive person, but it’s getting more and more difficult to not let those jaded thoughts infiltrate my mind - especially when I feel so hopeless with what’s going on at home.

"Thanks, Xan, but I’m just going to go home." I give him a small warm smile at how appreciative I am for always including me.

He extends the styrofoam cup toward me. As I take the noodles from his hands, I make sure to savour every last bite and sip of what will most likely be my last meal of the day.

♥?

"Trish, please go home," I chastise, watching my boss limp from the fall she took earlier because our apprentice doesn’t know how to use a mop properly.

I shouldn’t blame the 14-year-old; it’s her parents I should knock some sense into. What teenager doesn’t know how to wring water out of a mop to avoid creating a flood on the floor? God knows I’ve had to wring out a mop or two over the years to clean up at home.

"I can close up. I’ve done it hundreds of times before," I assert, watching the woman who’s more like a second mum to me hobble over to the worn brown leather couch.

"You’re closing tomorrow though." She exhales as if she’s annoyed at herself for stacking it.

"So?" I shrug, sweeping the discarded hair from my last client. "What’s another hour? It’s not usually busy at that time anyway," I dismiss, urging her to go.

Truth be told, I adore being by myself for the last hour of work because it’s the only time I have a little peace and quiet to myself. It’s difficult to recharge and replenish when my mind is a constant carousel of worrying about being on the brink of homelessness, the health of my family, or the fact that I’m 22 years old and there doesn’t seem to be any reprieve in sight.

It’s also the only way I can have a hot make-shift sponge bath. The mouldy leaky shower at home barely works, and unless I want to sneak into a gym, or have one at Xan’s, this is the only option.

"I’m worried about you, Row. You’re running yourself ragged. You know I’ll give you the shifts you ask for, but I think it’s too much." I take a step toward her and almost buckle at the knees from standing on my feet all day. If there ever was an animal I identify with the most, it is definitely a koala. I could easily sleep up to 20 hours a day, but unfortunately for me, I’m more like an exhausted pigeon who sleeps maybe five if she’s lucky.

I compose myself, playing off my near-slip as me just being clumsy. "Don’t be silly. I love it when you leave; I can actually play my music." She goes to speak, but I’m saved by the bell when Cindy walks in.

"Every time I enter this place, it’s like I’m transported to a psychedelic playground." She waves at Trish and saunters over to me in her immaculate little black dress. It sounds like a compliment, but I see her wrinkle her nose and grimace slightly.

It was hard to make girlfriends growing up. The girls in high school had little to no ambition, making me - the nerd who preferred books over drugs or sex - a prime target for their relentless bullying.

Cindy seemed to embrace me, but I still find it hard to tell if she’s genuine or not.

Sometimes I feel like her shadow, and that I’m not good enough, but it’s maybe because we have next to nothing in common besides Xander.

I glance around at this so-called psychedelic playground she sees. She’s not wrong. It does look more like an adult carnival than a hairdresser. In one corner, there’s an old-school barber area decked out with a vintage 50s barber quartet feel, with beers on tap and an assortment of bar treats like beef jerky and nuts. Opposite the man cave is the general salon that is charming and eclectic.

Cindy situates herself at the basin, waiting for me to cape her up. The only time I ever see her alone is when she stops by for me to do her hair, otherwise it’s when I hang out with Xander. While I wash and blow-dry her hair, she tells me about her recent family holiday to Switzerland, reminding me of the stark differences between our lives.

I look at my friend who looks like a supermodel and I shrivel inside knowing she’d probably be a better fit for Mr Sexy from this morning.

My hair is pink, my nipples are pierced, and I also have an underboob tattoo, which is intricate as much as it is dainty and delicate.

The words ‘Remember you’re the one who can fill the world with sunshine’ are inscribed under my right breast, with tiny birds, stars, and flowers weaving and cording its way to my left one.

The tattoo is the most recent permanent addition to my body. It was a bit of a present to myself after my last boyfriend told me he was only with me so he could get closer to Cindy.

---