all day breakfast

I got sick of firing emails into the ether. Out of offices bouncing back. Boring little boomerangs peppering my inbox. So I quit. I picked up a couple of shifts in a caf instead.

It was, most definitely, a caf. They served breakfast all day and tea was served with the bag in the cup. Believe me, it was a caf. I enjoyed it. Make the drinks, serve the drinks, wash the cups, repeat.

I scooped ice-cream into teddy bear cones in all kinds of weather. Placed chip butties in front of cold eager hands. Listened as owners told you their dog would lick you to death. It is still death, I would think, smiling. I swept up after muddy boots that followed the smell of hot oil down the river. To the caf.

I wrote tickets for the kitchen, All day breakfast. All day breakfast. Another ticket. Fry up. 14:19. Are you still serving breakfast? We are! I said, the cook standing behind me did not hide her disapproval. She poked me in the side and I flinched, turning my yelp into part of my act. Aaayynny drinks today, folks?

Full English. He said under a stiff upper lip. I am not. I smiled. Unimpressed, he continued. Filter coffee. Not rudely but sort of bitter. Not unlike the filter coffee.

Breakfasts all day. All day turned into weeks. Sitting on a glass plate in the microwave next to a little ramekin of baked beans. Weeks turning into months. I walked into the kitchen and hung over a steel arm, neatening pinned up tickets.

Accidentally piercing the yolk of an egg with her spatula, the cook exhaled loudly and used the handle to point to a ticket. What’s that? She asked bluntly, cracking shell against a pan. I glanced at the paper. A jumble of letters. Fuck knows. I said. It’s your writing look again. I loved how plainly she spoke. It made me believe her.

I did as she said. Focused on each letter and moved my eyes across the ticket. It was my writing. The carbon smudging across the paper. I looked at my hands. My fingers were blue. I looked back at the ticket.

What does it mean? She asked. Eager to start the next order. I think it means I quit. I said, poking her in the ribs and skipping to the staff room, which was really a cupboard. You need a job, she yelled after me. I grabbed my coat and slung my headphones round my ears. Before pressing play, I shouted back. I don’t believe you!

Strutting back into the kitchen, she looked at me dancing to music that no one could here. She rolled her eyes and gave me a half smile. Using the other half to mouth something. I lifted the music from one ear, replaced by the fryer spitting at the taste of more hashbrowns. I will see you tomorrow. She told me. I kicked the heavy door open and grinned back at her. The sunlight hit my face but annoyingly, I believed her.

All day. I shouted, clocking out.