Page 4 of Embers of Midnight
Smile Like You Mean It
Seraphina
My alarm has no mercy. It drills into my skull until my hand finds the phone and kills it. The room is cold enough to make my breath catch. I peel myself out of the sheets and set my feet on the floor. Shock shoots up my calves like I stepped on ice.
The shower does its best and settles on lukewarm. Water taps my shoulders, then slides off like it’s done for the day. I wipe a stripe in the steamed mirror. Dull brown eyes look back, like someone chipped a piece out of them and forgot to put it back. Functional. Not shining.We work. We don’t need glow to get through Tuesday.
I towel off, drag on the cleanest sweater I own, and scrape my hair into a knot that will fail me at lunchtime. In the kitchen I hit the coffee maker and wait out the first bitter breath. I wrap my fingers around the mug. Heat climbs into my wrists. “Coffee first. Debates later,” I tell the empty counter, which is honestly the best audience.
Outside, the air bites. Snow complains under my boots. My breath puffs and breaks apart. Streetlights hum; one flickers, then gives up. I yank my scarf higher until it saws gently at my chin and walk the three blocks to the diner because rent doesn’t negotiate and neither does hunger.
The bell over the door chirps when I push in. Warmth slaps my cheeks. Grease, coffee, and maple syrup fold over me in a blanket that shouldn’t be comforting and is anyway. Lina is already at the flat-top, hair tucked in a scarf, spatula moving like it’s an extra hand she was born with.
“Morning, Sera,” she says, eyes never leaving the eggs.
“Morning.” I hang my coat, wash up, and run the prep loop. Sugar shakers full. Creamers cold. Cutlery rolled tight. The coffee machine hisses and clicks like a fussy radiator. I load grounds, slide carafes into place, and tap the side of the steel with my knuckle. “Easy. You’ll get fresh beans.”
Jess breezes past me toward the back, tugging a beanie over her hair. “Heads up—Mark’s in a mood.”
“Does he ever leave it?” I ask, just as Mark sticks his head out of the office with a smile that looks stapled on.
“Team,” he says, clapping his hands. “Let’s give people a good day. Smile like you mean it.”
I keep my voice low enough that only Lina hears me. “I smile by the hour. Today’s the budget version.” Her mouth tips in a private, wicked line before she flips a pancake with a softshup.
The first customers are the bus-station pair who always sit by the window and soften their coffee with silence. I drop menus we all know they won’t read. “Morning, Bob. Earl.” Black for both. Toast. Scrambled. My body finds the rhythm without asking: plates warm in my left hand, right hand sets cups, weight settles into my forearm and then releases. My fingertips go tacky with syrup that migrates everywhere like it’s unionized.
By seven-thirty the place has a pulse. The door chimes. Boots thump. Someone coughs the kind of smoker’s cough that rattles the ceiling tiles. I work the counter and four booths at once, refill coffee, sell a muffin to a man who apologizes for existing, and smile at a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept in three months.
A dad and a kid slide into the corner booth, snow still clinging to their sleeves. The kid’s hat has dinosaur spikes and the kid has the kind of face that takes things seriously. I bring water and menus.
“Do you do dino pancakes?” the kid asks, voice grave.
I glance at Lina, who arches a brow liketry me.“We do,” I say. “One prehistoric short stack coming right up.”
Lina pours batter in shapes I’ll generously call abstract. On the plate it looks like a cloud that lost a fight. I carry it out with a flourish and set it down like I’m unveiling art.
The kid frowns. “Is that a T-Rex?”
“Today it is,” I say. I swipe a little chocolate syrup from the squeeze bottle at the table and dot two eyes, draw a jagged grin, add tiny arms. “Paleontology on a budget.”
The dad laughs, a warm sound that sits low. The kid leans in. “He looks scary.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Food tastes better when it respects you a little.”
The kid nods, satisfied. The dad slides a thank-you into his smile and something small in my chest unclenches, then pretends it didn’t. When I swing back later with more napkins, the plate is clean and there’s an extra couple dollars under the sugar caddy like a secret.
More of that,my mind suggests.Less of everything else.
The morning rush crests. A delivery guy swears under his breath at the door; the latch sticks until Lina shoulders it open with one practiced shove. I run coffee to a table of nurses in scrubs, and they inhale it like medicine. For one breath, the diner is a chorus of clinks and breath and soft talk. It almost feels gentle.
Lunchtime brings a family that sheds snow and noise at the same time. Two parents, two kids, the kind of easy laughter thatfits them like a coat. I take their order—grilled cheese, tomato soup, BLT, extra pickles—and catch myself watching more than I should. The mom wipes a smear of ketchup off the toddler’s cheek with the edge of a napkin; the dad pretends to steal a fry and gets his hand smacked with a plastic dinosaur.
Good for them.My throat tightens anyway.You don’t even want that,I remind myself, which is a lie I’m too tired to fight. I top off their waters and steer my face back to neutral.
The door yanks open and a blast of cold shoves in a trio of construction guys. They smell like winter air and drywall. They’re loud but not cruel, thank God. I park them near the window, take orders, and let Lina work her magic. She moves like a metronome: flip, sprinkle, plate, wipe. I ferry. That’s my art.
Near three, I misjudge the weight of a tray. A full coffee slops toward the rim. My wrist dips, then corrects. The liquid kisses the lip and slides back in without spilling. The man in the booth flinches, then exhales.
