Second Fate

1

The clacking sound of fingernails on the bakery's counter mixed with the street noises entering the shop through a half-open window. With no reason to hide my boredom, I let my gaze wander through the 20 sunny square meters with birchwood floors and flower tapestry, which I ruled over on weekdays between six in the morning until whenever my colleague could be bothered to show up and relief me.

There was nothing unusual about a lack of customers on a late Monday morning, and I had forgotten to charge my phone overnight. Now my short nails were painted, the counter cleaned and I had nothing better to do than let my daydreams take over.

I was already imagining the arrival of a good-looking young man, who would order two bagels and a baguette. He'd explain that he was preparing brunch for his sister, but my gaze would be preoccupied by the set of two suspiciously sharp fangs between his upper lip.

Looks would be exchanged, and, on the leave, he'd hand me a paper with his number.

No, no, I corrected myself angrily, no note. He's not a grade schooler.

Mentally, I rewound the scenario up to the point where he paid for his purchase and this time, I let him leave with a mysterious smile.

New scene, change of scenery.

Now I was standing in a dark alleyway, a flickering streetlamp above me, ice cold rain hitting my burning cheeks. Or was it tears? I was being chased, in grave danger, but one more turn and there he appeared again, the man with the bagels. 

A chance meeting, which would make him a hero and forge the unbreakable bond of fate between us.

As the bell above the shop door chimed, I straightened like a rod. A good-looking men nearing 30 entered, fine features beneath thick, auburn hair. With a professional smile I sold him half a loaf of bread, for which he thanked me politely. He stayed for a second, making small talk about work and the weather.

When he left, he didn't leave a note, but I caught myself feeling relieved.

It wasn't him either, I thought, while I took a wet towel and wiped down the counter. Something was missing.

The rest of the day passed as slowly and uneventful as the first few hours of my shift. Shortly after the sun began its descent, I could finally slip out of my apron. With a murmured greeting and a tired smile, I left my older colleague behind to hurry home.

*

The building, in which I had made myself a modest home, was in worse shape than the patients of the senior residency down the street. Flaky paint and dirt of one or two millennia covered the outer walls while the inside of the building was in relation kept almost clean and tidy. The landlord was struggling to keep the water out of the walls by limited financial means and half of the building's residents were actively working against him.

When I moved here 4 years ago, I hadn't spared a single thought for the details; all that I could think of back then was the incredible achievement it meant: I, Jamie, can pay for my own flat with a real job. 

And didn't it sound all proper and presentable?

After a childhood on the move and teenage years in which I had blacked out more than slept, this average life had felt like a miracle. Since that first day on my own, it had started to feel like a given. I felt no pride in my achievements, as I pushed the heavy front door closed and kicked the sneakers of my feet. 

With a big sigh I allowed myself one short look at the chaos and the litter covering my living room floor.

I really needed to make the next day off a cleaning day.