21 Years and 21 Bills

Kaylee Lowe

Matt is humming “Closing Time”

under his breath. I wonder if

he ever gets tired of Semisonic,

Led Zepplin, or the other old shit

he blasts through the speakers.

He holds up the dustpan as

I sweep 24’s green beans and fries.

I scan the check for 20%, not even

expecting it anymore. “25, 26, 27,”

I count bills to the bartender.

“27? I made at least 10 Cosmos

for you tonight.” It was 8

to be exact. “Check my sales

then Matt. It’s 27.” I untie my

apron and can breathe for the

first time in 9 hours. I fill the mop

bucket and somehow the water

is still brown. I cover it with Dawn.

My pocket vibrates, neglected

since the AM shift. 36 texts from

my mother all read the same:

We need at least $150 tonight.

What do they say about “better

luck next time?” I try not to skid

across the kitchen, wash my hands,

drain the slosh-There’s something

silver, reflective. I brave the disease

and reach my fingers in. The spoon

shows me my face for the first time all

day. I don’t like what I see.