My pulse is too loud in my ears.
Tension pulls every muscle in my body tight enough to snap.
I want to scream, maybe at the kid or with them, I don't know. But it’s the only thing I can think of that might get this misdirected, senseless rage out of my body.
Get out. Need to get out. Out!
I slap a $10 on the table, not caring that it equates to essentially a $7 tip. Better to lose out on a few dollars than losing so much more by ripping this booth from the fucking wall.
Early October air pours into my lungs with each desperate breath I force into my tight chest. I should count, hold the air, let it out with some semblance of control, do any of the things I've learned over the years to bring myself back to center. The best I can do is breathe.
There will be times when all you can do is take one breath, and if you're lucky, another after that. Allow it to be enough.I let that nugget of wisdom from my first therapist play in my head over and over again until my heart rate slows down. Until I can begin a count.
In... 2, 3, 4?—
“You about to hurl or something?” Joey's voice cuts off my count.
“Yeah.” I hadn't fully registered until this moment that I'd crouched down, elbows on my knees, and head in my hands. “Move a little closer so I don't have to aim.”
“Very funny.” He reaches down, grabbing my upper arm as if to pull me up.
“Don't fucking touch me,” I snap, pushing him away with far more force than necessary.
Joey makes a knowing sound. “So it's that kinda day.” It isn't a question. “Here,” he holds out a cigarette.
I take it. Joey smoked the shittiest menthols money could buy but I almost appreciate the way the smoke sizzles into my lungs. Almost.
“If you mean the kinda day where I sit in a shitty diner waiting for my asshole cousin to show. Then, yeah, it’s that kinda day.”
He takes a long drag, his too thin cheeks sucking in further, before crushing the half-smoked cigarette under his boot. “We going in?” He doesn't wait for my answer.
“Dick,” I say, smoke streaming from my nostrils as I follow.
“Welcome back,” the same waitress greets me once I settle into a different creaky booth. “Another tea, sweetheart?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Maybe my previous tip would earn me a less shitty cup.
“Coffee,” Joey adds.
“You got it.”
He leans across the table a bit, lowering his voice, a shit eating grin on his face. “Think I should tell her you called this place shitty when she gets back?” Instead of words, I land a kick to his shin under the table, garnering something between a hiss and a chuckle.
“You look like shit, man.” I know it’s harsh, but it’s also not a lie. Besides, I'm still bristling.
“If I wanted a fucking crayon eater's opinion, I would've asked,” he grouses. The waitress deposits our mugs and takes our assurances that we’re good for now.
“Crayon eater?” I hadn't heard that particular jab in a while. It insinuated that all Marines were more brawn than brains. “You can do better than that.”
He snorts into his coffee. “For your information, some of us had to take a third shift gig because we got fired.”
My hackles rise. “Maybe you wouldn't have gotten fired if you showed up on time every now and then.”
“Yeah, I'm sure that would've kept you from giving me my pink slip.”
“I didn't fire you.” I can hear my voice tilting a touch too loud and try to rein it in. “I went to bat for you more times than I should've.”
“You want another fucking medal?” he spits.
