Page 37 of Versions Of Us

“How long have you worked here?” she asks.

Her question seems strange. Too personal.

“A while, I guess,” I answer, blinking at her as I do the sums in my head. “Since I was seventeen. I’m almost twenty-five now, so I guess almost eight years.”

She looks almost sad when I tell her this and I can’t for the life of me understand why she should be.

“And you live around here?” she asks, waving a hand in a circular motion.

“Yeah.” I don’t mean to, but I draw the word out, an undercurrent of apprehension in my tone.

If her questions had been coupled with a friendly demeanour, I’d be happy to answer them, but her attitude is almost accusatory.

I expect her to come back with a new question, but she simply replies, “Cool.”

“What about you?” I ask. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

If she’s going to be interrogating me, I’m at least going to try and find out something about her too.

“Wow,” she replies, her tone defensive. “So that’s how small this town is, huh?”

“You could say that. Pretty much everyone knows everyone around here,” I say. “I’m guessing you’ve come from out of town?”

“You’ve guessed right.” There’s that sarcasm again. “I’m staying with a friend right now.”

“Oh. Anyone I might know?” I know it isn’t my business, but she’s probed me for enough information I feel it only fair to ask.

She looks away from me, scanning the street outside. “Just a friend.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll leave you to… drink your water.”

I spin on my heel and return to my place behind the counter. Mr. Henderson is patiently waiting for his usual. A slice of pear and raspberry bread with a bottle of sparkling mineral water. I shuffle around the small space, fetching the items before handing them over to him. When I glance back at the girl by the window her eyes are on mine again.

I never used to consider myself a cynical person, but recent events have taught me not to trust people easily. Because the truth is, you can be as close or as intimate with somebody as humanly possible and still never really know them. I learnt that the hard way.

Working at the helpline hasn’t helped deter me from raising suspicions about everyone I meet these days. A chance meeting with a strange, blonde girl in a café is no exception.

She doesn’t trust me, but she has no reason to either. Nor does she have to answer my questions, even though I answered hers. The way she watches me from the corner, her secretiveness about the ‘friend’ she’s staying with, the hostile attitude. It all screams cry for help to me. I can’t stop my brain from digging up possible reasons for why this girl might have come here.

Maybe there is no ‘friend’ at all.

Why has she come into the café to simply sip on free water?

Is it the only thing she can afford?

God, why am I like this?

Why am I always searching for ways to help people that probably don’t even need saving?

A quick peek at the clock on the register tells me my shift ended five minutes ago. I shake the questions from my mind. It’s time for me to focus. I need to get back to studying. My exam is in less than two hours.

I untie my apron and toss it into the laundry hamper, snatching my satchel bag from the locker out the back. When I return to the front, the girl is still there, but this time she’s staring out the window lost in thought.

I take a few pastries and a sandwich out of the refrigerated cabinet, using tongs to arrange them on a small plate.

“Carla, I want to pay for these,” I say throwing down a twenty on the counter. Carla eyes me thoughtfully, so in a low voice I say, “It’s for the girl at table sixteen. I think she might be homeless or something.”

Carla sighs, but a small smile appears on her face. “You can’t save everyone, you know?”

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