The Roommate Equation

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I'm startled awake by the sound of someone rustling around behind me. Disorientated, I stagger up off the sofa, blinking blearily around.

It's Jakob; he's leaning over, rummaging around in the fridge.

"Hey," I murmur, making my way towards him.

He spins around, surprised. "Hey! Are you feeling better?"

"Better…?" I frown, then it all comes spiralling back to me. "Oh. That."

"Yeah. That," he says, giving me a sympathetic look. "You really hate the dude, huh?"

"You have no idea," I mumble, looking down at my hands. I notice the time on the oven and swear.

"Shit, I better go, my shift starts in half an hour," I say, turning on my heel and running out the room.

"Okay, bye!" Jakob calls after me.

I quickly redo my make-up in the mirror and brush through my hair a few times before I grab my coat and run down the corridor, waving to Jakob as I pass the kitchen.

I hop on a bus and burst through the door of The White Swan just as the clock chimes six. My boss is standing there, glaring at me. His name is Donald; a short, portly man, with flaming red hair and a moustache to match. He's got the temper of a rhino, and enjoys yelling at his staff at regular intervals. I think he gets some weird kick out of it.

"Cutting it a bit fine, don't you think, December?" he barks, shoving a black apron at me. I tie it quickly around my waist, panting slightly due to my run from the bus stop. I don't know why he's so angry; I'm on time, and the place is practically empty. I know that in an hour it will be packed, and then hell will begin. "Go and help Kelsie with the washing up. I'l call you out when you need to start waiting tables."

Sighing, I walk as slowly as humanly possible to the kitchen. It's a small pub, with a traditional English feel to it- dim lights on the dark red walls illuminate the old wooden tables with a soft glow. It's actually quite a nice place to go for a meal, but in the evenings the students flock and it becomes loud, obnoxious and unbearable.

In the kitchen, Steve and Margo, the chefs, are leaning out the window, smoking. Kelsie has her hands in the sink, a sour expression on her face- but then, she always looks sour. Standing at over 6 feet tall with a thin and wiry frame, she's done everything she can to make people scared of her; tattoos, piercings, an unhealthy obsession with black and heaps of eyeliner that make her look like she's been in bar fight. She doesn't speak a lot, just mostly glares at everyone, grunting if she needs anything. I'm not scared of her; on the contrary, I feel a little sorry for her. She's obviously an outsider, and seems to come from a tough background.

"Hey," I mutter, pulling on a pair of gloves, and grabbing a bowl to scrub.

She makes a noncommittal sound as a greeting.

We work in silence for a while, listening to the peaceful quiet slowly becoming more and more disrupted as the pub fills up. Too soon, Donald marches in, barking something at Steve and Margo about chicken wings before turning to Kelsie and me.

"You two- waiting tables. Now." He turns on his heel and stalks out.

Groaning, I peel off the gloves and lay them by the sink. Kelsie slinks out the room, but I stand there, just relishing the quiet before I push open the door.

I'm immediately hit with the smell of alcohol, cigarettes and cologne. It's packed; all the tables are taken, and more people are filing in as I watch. The sounds of raucous laughter and whooping hit me and I want to go home already.