mkcounsel1


 * Counseling of a Counter Girl**

The first time I saw the couple was on a Monday; the Monday I started work as the chipper counter girl of the Red Rainbow Cafe. The one off of Route 18, left of the big buildings that… Anyway, they didn’t act like they were better than everyone else but you could tell they were. They dressed well and their clothes looked expensive. The woman wore a little jewelry but it was all seriously gorgeous stuff. We’re talking diamonds and little blue sparkles. They were married too, even though they didn’t act like it. They had matching rings and that look like they were always together. I don’t think she was happy with their marriage, though. She never looked too pleased. He didn’t notice. The husband was always flirting with someone or with her. She usually just smiled back, but not a real smile. Most girls would have giggled or laughed the way this guy kept going. Not her. She looked like she wanted to throw up.

“One vanilla latte and an iced coffee.” “Would you like anything else?” is the automated response. And always, he would say, “What do you recommend?” Every time I would point out something with far too many calories and sugar and carbs for him and something lighter for her, and every time he would cheerfully agree. They came on Mondays.

One Friday she came in by herself. I have no idea why; she always looked kind of terrified to be in the café. I’m not sure if it looked that way because she was surrounded by normal, non-rich people or because every time she came in it was with the husband. Every time before this once. “Iced coffee,” she droned. Her voice was strained. I was supposed to ask if she would like anything else, but the words came out differently: “Are you all right?” She looked really surprised at the question. But she tweaked a smile and said, “Yes. Why do you ask?” Meaning, //why the hell do you care?// I shrugged, unsure of what to say. She smiled, took her drink, and left two extra dollars on the counter.

A few days later her husband came in by himself, looking tired and depressed. Alice was ready to flirt with him to the ends of hell but I gave her the gangbanger kid that always ordered cupcakes. The man smiled at me when I came up to his side of the counter. “Vanilla latte,” he said. //Would you like anything else with that?// “Chocolate’s better for when you’re upset.” He stared at me for a minute, mouth open like a fish. I know he was wondering why I’d commented on his misery – hell, I was wondering too. But he grinned and said, “Ok, chocolate then.” He left two extra dollars on the counter.

She came again, the one day I wasn’t at the counter. And that one day she decided to sit at the restaurant, where I somehow ended up her server. She was staring at her menu for ten minutes until I finally tapped the table for attention. “Hi, I’m Alyssa, I’ll be your server today.” Insert fake smile. “Can I get you a –” “You’re the counter girl,” she realized. //Do not roll your eyes at the customer.// “I see you…Mondays, right?” “Yeah.” “What are you doing here?” “One of the guys got sick so I filled in,” I shrugged. “Plus, there’s better tips.” “Good for you,” she told me. She sounded…proud. I resisted rolling my eyes and shrugged. She was some kind of //feminist//, with the whole “girl power to the max!” I support girls being awesome, but some people are just overboard. Like Wonder Woman. “Can I get you a drink?” “Ginger Ale.” She never said please. I nodded and went to the bar to get her drink. When I came back with it she was still staring at the menu, like she’d never seen anything like it. Then again, she probably hadn’t, being rich[ish] and all. I set the glass on the table and laid out some napkins. “Are you ready to order?” I asked. She looked up and grimaced. “What do you recommend?” “I don’t know. I don’t like eating where I work.” “I’ll have the chicken carbonara. With extra shrimp.” “Would you like any appetizers? The soup of the day is clam chowder and we have a salad bar.” “I’ll have breadsticks,” she decided. “And my associate should be arriving sometime soon.” Her associate turned out to be a skinny brunette woman dressed just as well but in uglier colors. Brown and yellow did //not// look good on that lady. She ordered filet mignon and a salad. I don’t know what they were talking about but it was probably something with business because the brunette had a ton of papers to show her. She paid with a credit card made for Elisa Heffner.

Elisa and her husband still came to the café on Mondays, but I’m not sure why. They never really //did// anything; just ordered, ate, and left. Her husband still talked to her and she still smiled like she wanted to run out of the building. He didn’t look that happy either. Elisa came every Friday by herself and a bunch of papers. They looked like insurance contracts and stuff. One time she had some man with her and she was showing him one of the papers. Whatever he was telling her didn’t make her happy.

Her husband came in alone on a Wednesday, a rainy day when we were almost empty. Cupcake-gang boy was in his usual corner and some college girl with her fingers melded to a laptop sat by herself. “Chocolate latte,” he droned. His voice was strained. I should have asked if he would like anything else, but the words changed in my mouth: “Are you all right?” He blinked, totally shocked. “Why?” Good question. “You look like crap,” I said. He was stunned, probably because some slightly random stranger just told him he looked like waste. I shrugged, grabbing a plastic cup. “Not going to lie to you.” He blinked at that one. I think he was used to people lying to him, especially considering the way his wife looked at him sometimes. Not sometimes, all the time. She always looked kind of…trapped. Like she didn’t want to be there. Like she didn’t want to be anywhere. “I’m just tired,” he said. “My wife’s been kind of mad recently.” “Work problems?” “I think so. She doesn’t like to talk about it.” He paused and added, “I don’t think she liked her birthday present.” “It was her birthday?” “Yesterday. I got her red roses.” “Why didn’t she like it? That’s so…” Romantic. Old-fashioned. Traditional. Ordinary. “She likes ‘black’ roses. The really, really, dark kind? Her coworkers always get her a bunch.” “And you don’t.” “They’re creepy. And unromantic.” “Just give her a gift card of something then.” “Maybe.” He smiled, took his drink, and left two dollars extra.

The next time I saw either of them was a Tuesday. Elisa looked like she hadn’t slept in a month and her perfect hair was no longer perfect. There was no jewelry and her outfit looked like she’d just slapped on anything she could reach, though it still looked good. Expensive crap tends to do that. “You ok?” I asked before she could order. She stared at me and laughed a little, kind of crazy. “Not really,” she said. She glared at the menu. “Give me whatever’s strongest.” I made her an Irish coffee with extra whiskey. I was giving her back her change when she said, “Wait.” I looked at her. “Let’s say there’s a woman,” she said slowly. “An independent woman who marries an idiot that just restrains her. What should she do?” “Restrains her like, abuses her?” I asked. Maybe she was talking about a friend? “Mentally,” she drawled. “As in, is too much of an idiot to comprehend that she has a life of her own and his //Ozzie and Harriet// fantasy is past its expiration date.” “I don’t know. Get therapy?” “Therapy is a pain.” She got a funny look in her eye. “I could always kill him…” “You’re gonna kill someone?” Holy crap, man, //therapy//. “No, no,” she laughed. “I’m a writer and I’m trying to solve the conflict in the most interesting way.” “Oh.” That made sense. Sort of. “If the wife kills him, won’t people get suspicious? I mean, she’d get insurance, right?” “Please,” Elisa scoffed. “She might get property insurance if she smashed a vase over his head.” She muttered, “One of those goddamn vases from Greece…” She didn’t tip.

I saw her husband one more time after that meeting with her. He was happy, so I figured his wife was doing better. But I still wondered… “What’s your wife’s job?” “Huh?” He stared at me. “Why do you ask?” “Just curious.” “She works insurance.”

Three weeks later I saw Elisa again. She was smiling and had a newspaper. She looked better than before, wearing a beautiful purple dress and a string of tiny diamonds on her neck. She wasn’t wearing her ring. “How are you?” I asked when she came up. She set the newspaper down. “Good,” she smiled. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.” She excused herself to the bathroom before I could hand her the ordered coffee so I flipped through her paper. There was an obituary for Robert Heffner, 27, died of food poisoning. I recognized the picture. Coins and dollars fell on the counter and widow Elisa Heffner swept past me, took her coffee, and muttered the last words I heard from her lips: “I should have used the vase.”