"Binti*! You'll fly away like a leaf if you don't eat something."
She turned to find Khalid standing by the entrance, a faded cap perched on his head, holding out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. She could hear his knees creak as he made his way towards her with slow, careful steps.
"I know you. You won't stop to eat," he grumbled, thrusting it into her hand before she could argue.
"And drink water," he added sternly, shaking a bony finger at her. "Not just that filthy tea you make."
Aria smiled despite herself, feeling the familiar squeeze of gratitude in her heart. "I will, Jiddo** ," she promised. She would.Probably.
Khalid watched her until she stuffed the sandwich into her bag, undid the chain and swung onto her bike, the tyres squealing in protest as she pushed off into the grey morning.
The bike rattled under her as she pedalled, her long braid slapping against the back of her jacket.
Her hair-thick, curling, black as night with a few silver strands threaded stubbornly through it-had never been cut, not really. Mami had loved it too much. "A girl's beauty is in her hair," she'd say, fingers deft, pulling the plaiting just a little too tight.
Aria still wore it the same way- one long braid, trailing down to her hips like a tether to a past she could not quite let go of.
She was slim, though the years of hard labour had not pared her down in places no amount of work could touch. Her ribs were sharp under her skin if you pressed your palm to her side, but her hips still carried love handles she could never seem to shed, and her breasts were larger than she'd ever wished for, always a nuisance to button up, to hide, to make small.
Her eyes were the colour of whiskey-rich, warm, dark around the edges. They made people stop sometimes, look a little longer than they meant to.
She hated it.
The buildings blurred past as she pushed harder, needing to feel the strain in her legs, the burn in her chest, anything but the tightness twisting deeper inside her.
The café came into view-a tired-looking place tucked between a newsagent and a closed betting shop. Crude graffiti decorated the closed shop's dirty glass, along with a rude, suggestive message underneath it.
The Crusty Loaf, the scratched sign proclaimed. A breakfast and lunch place for council workers, tired mums with screaming toddlers, and the occasional hungover builder.
Aria skidded to a stop and chained up her bike. She pulled her braid over her shoulder, tucked it inside her jacket, and squared her shoulders.
Inside, the warmth and clatter of morning service hit her like a wave.
Gallan spotted her first from behind the counter. He was a big man with a wide belly that strained against his apron, a red nose that spoke of his fondness for pub nights and racing bets, and a shiny bald spot he never bothered to hide.
"About time, lass!" he barked across the floor, but there was no real bite in it. His eyes were kind, twinkling even as he pretended to scowl.
Aria tossed him a sheepish smile and grabbed an apron from the hook by the door.
"Miracle she's early," came a sharper voice from behind the coffee machine.
Liz was already there, perched like a queen at her post, long manicured nails tapping a beat against the till. Her blonde hair gleamed unnaturally under the fluorescent lights, her neckline plunging even lower than usual. Aria couldn't help but notice the suspicious plumpness of Liz's lips-another round of fillers, probably. God knew where she found the money, what with juggling three kids from two ex-husbands and barely scraping together shifts.
Liz had hated her from the first day.
Her loathing had only gotten worse after that time Crispin had forgotten his phone and had rushed to the café. Aria had been working the counter that day. Liz had been there, too, watching with narrowed eyes as Crispin stood too close, as his hand brushed Aria's when she handed over the device and something unspoken passed between them. He didn't even notice Liz bending down to give him a good view.
Liz hadn't forgotten, and Liz didn't forgive a perceived slight. Her jabs just got sharper. A girl with "overflowing boobs and a bubble butt," as she'd once muttered when she thought Aria couldn't hear. "Not two brain cells in that simple head of hers," she said another time when Aria was right next to her.
Aria tied her apron tighter around her waist, ignoring the snide comment, and slipped behind the counter.
In the kitchen, Amir banged pots around loudly, grumbling in his usual way.
"British food tastes like boiled socks," he called through the hatch without looking up. "I swear to God, if I have to make another full English, I will throw myself into the fryer."
"You say that every day," Aria called back, smiling in spite of herself.
"And every day it's true," Amir huffed, flipping bacon onto a plate. "But money is money."
