Citrus

300 Block, 14 Minutes

I'm beginning to panic a bit. I've gotten less than halfway there in more than half the time. Although I sometimes loathe my job, I have to admit I hate being late even more. This is yet another admirable habit my mother passed onto me. Punctuality is key- yeah, yeah, mom. I get it. Please get out of my head. You are making things tougher.

Maybe I should focus on the good qualities of my job, as it'll make this walk that much more bearable. I generally like our line of products. I like opening the lids of our coffee canisters and conspiculously taking a big whiff of the beans. They smell good, and I get strange looks. But I'm also forgiven almost instantaneously, since I'm the cute girl behind the counter with the oversized beanie, pretentiously ambiguous tattoos, and nose ring.

I like asking customers how they are. When they reply with, good, how are you?, I get to say, I'm WELL, thank you. And then they'll know the grammatically appropriate way to respond next time. But I say it in such a way that they don't recognize I'm being arrogant, of course. It's a beautiful thing.

Maybe I should give them a call to let them know there's a possibility that I'll be late. Actually, now it's more of a probability, but they don't need to know that.

I reach into my right pocket. No phone. I try my left. No fucking phone.

Fuck. My. Life.

I must have left it in my car! So now it becomes an ethical battle of sorts: I either press on towards work, or I go back to retrieve my iPhone. I would almost rather be jobless than phone-less. No matter what, though, I've got to get ahold of my manager and let him know what's happening. He's a dick, though.

Seriously. He's the kind of person that brings a "service" dog into a grocery store despite showing no apparent reason for needing one. He can walk just fine; he can see; he can speak and he can hear. He just doesn't listen. And it's always a Chocolate Lab that he carries over his shoulder. Clearly the dog isn't doing him any kind of service except for proving that he's an ass.

And yet, I'd still feel guilty if I didn't report to him. I am such a good person.

Someone on this block has to have a cell phone that they're willing to let me use. Hmm. Oh, no, not her. She looks like a 3 year-old who dressed herself. And the guy she's with just looks like a stranger walking awkwardly close to her, but they're holding hands. 

Ahh, now this guy looks like he's got it together. Short, loose curls on his head, and his chest protrudes further than his stomach. Such definition. I think we've found a winner. 

"Excuse me," I say. "Could I please use your phone? I left mine at home by accident and I'm going to be late to work." Holy fuck. If I weren't pressed for time, I would nonchalantly put my number in his phone afterwards. Maybe I'll take the risk and do it anyway.

"Sure, no problem," he says. His voice is even sexier.

He hands me his phone. As I'm dialing, he appears to be sizing me up. I smile, and it's genuine; not one of those this is an awkward situation so I'll smile at you to not be blatantly rude even though I'd enjoy spitting in your face circumstances. 

"Nice shirt," he says. "Saw them in Fresno a couple years ago. My boyfriend and I got to meet them." 

Well, so much for that. My smile loosens into an apathetic partial grin. And goddamnit, nobody is answering. They must be in the middle of a rush. I end the call and hand Mr. Right his phone back. 

"Well thanks," I say halfheartedly. 

"No problem. I hope you make it." 

And I'm back on my way. I still don't have my phone, obviously, and that pisses me off. I'm about ready to just not show up. But if I did that, despite this shit storm of a day I'm having, I would still be racked with guilt. Because--and I reiterate--I'm a good person. Though soon I may be a good person with no source of income. Let's hope, by some miracle, that's not how it ends up.