NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY | updates every monday

17: warning: no sexual thoughts when operating kitchen equipment

            'But why "mint" of all the words?' Joe laughs, slicing apples to drop into the mason jar in front of her. 'What if you say, like, "that's mint ice cream"? How should I know if that means mint, the flavour, or if it's just excellent ice cream?'

I shrug, keeping my focus on the four pots of syrups I've got simmering on the hob. 'Never had that problem. I don't eat mint ice cream, that shit tastes like toothpaste–'

'Does not! What kind of toothpaste are you eating?'

'None. I don't eat toothpaste.' I cast her a grin. 'That one vegan coffee Ben and Jerries—now that is mint ice cream, that is.'

'I hate you.' Joe smiles as she returns to her mason jar, dropping in two stalks of cinnamon and picking up the ginger to slice.

We're together on opening shift again and after Fresher's Week having depleted nearly all of our backstock on syrups and infused liquors, Sasha assigned us to replenish it. Thus, we've spent the past hour in the kitchen.

We've found a good flow; Joe does all the chopping and makes the liquors whilst I focus on the syrups on the hob. I've worked here long enough to be able to have four going at the same time whilst Joe does still need to consult the recipes. She occasionally asks why I do things a certain way and explains how she used to do them at one of the, it turns out, insanely many previous pubs and clubs she's worked at. Our conversation mostly consisted of instructions for the first twenty minutes but we exhausted all work-related topics a while ago.

I stir each of the syrups in turn. The raspberry one is nearly done, but the others should probably keep boiling for another fifteen minutes. 'Did everything turn out okay with your essay?'

Joe stops slicing mid-peach to beam at me. 'Yeah, I've finished the course! I'm quite proud of it. It's odd, you know: I really hated uni. Well, I didn't hate it. I think I was just preoccupied with... other things and that meant everything with uni became a chore, if that makes sense. But I've really been enjoying Open University. I just feel, I don't know, empowered getting to learn new things. That's silly, it doesn't even make sense.'

'It makes sense.'

The sugar fumes from the syrups must be getting to my head because why the fuck are there flutters in my chest right now?

Cece's notification sound pings as I'm straining the raspberry syrup into a bottle and I pull my phone out without even lowering the sieve. My panic calms—it's only a picture of the orchid I gave him last winter. It has grown a second stalk and is now budding new flowers. I respond with a row of heart emojis.

Before I can tuck my phone away, they send another message: "summat i'm working on". The photo this time is of a few bits of metal welded together to form two teardrop-shaped frames. They send more pictures of sketches of a moth and explain they're trying to weld one. It must be going well then, with their new arts teacher. Cece deserves a teacher who actually values his style–

'Nikki!'

Joe's alarm brings me back to the present and the pineapple syrup about to boil over. I don't have time to react before Joe gently nudges me aside. The adrenaline still tarrying in my veins makes her touch flare through my entire arm. 'It's okay. Finish your message.' She don't seem mithered so I let her take over the stirring while I answer Cece.

Before that, I take the opportunity to watch her without her notice. Joe is wearing an oversized button-up with a binder and biking shorts that show just enough thigh for that to be the only thing I can think about. They'd be so soft for my fingers to dig into. And then my fingers could move to other places and I wouldn't care if all the syrups burnt–