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Tender

Yumik’s shift ends. She stands outside the bar smoking, shivering in her pink parka. The hood is like a cavern with feathery down. It scrunches up against the back of her neck instead of hooking up over her head. She leaves the parka unzipped so passers-by can see the starched white blouse she wears. She waits for Malle to finish cleaning up the kitchen before taking her home. She’d walk, but the cold strikes her bare knees. Her feet ache from standing for eight hours. She'd ride the bus, but it reeks of stale beer and urine, and the old men who ride around at night with conspicuous bottles in crinkled brown bags make her squeamish. The cabs never come down this street unless they get a call, and she can't afford the fare anyway.

Yumik takes a final drag on her cigarette and reaches into her pocket for another. She draws out an empty, mashed square of cellophane and flimsy paper. She crumples and rolls her eyes. She throws the pack down through the grated curbside sewer drain.

She heads back into the bar. Malle is drinking a beer while she wipes down the surface of the long bar. Her arm waves as her hand leads the damp towel in wobbling circles. Before they will leave, Malle needs to stack stools and mop. Yumik pulls out a stool and leans onto a wet spot. Her elbows, stuffed in her parka, slip forward.

“Make any money tonight, chica?” Malle says. She’s chewing gum while she drinks.

“Maybe. Didn’t count yet.” Yumik frowns.

“Wanna do me a favor and start stacking those?” Malle nods toward the stools. They are askew across the wide, empty bar, jostled from their neat line by customers hauling them every which way. “Sooner I’m done, sooner we’re home.”

“It’s cold in here,” Yumik says, standing.

“Didn’t bother turning on the heat with all them bodies crowding up the place. Little walking furnaces.”

Yumik shivers and thinks of the warmth of her bed. Its girth and depth reminds her of puff pastry. She wants to sink into the malleable mattress. The bed will hold her as if she is loved.

Malle turns to the register, where a large glass cylinder full of bills looms. Yumik watches Malle reach in and pull them out. Despite the handfuls that Malle plucks out like balls of cotton, the tip jar still looks full. Yumik stops staring when Malle glances at her.

"Told you bartending’s where the money is,” Malle smirks.

Yumik thinks of the drinks that got spilled on her when she jostled her way through the crowds to the tables. She remembers the pain in her wrist she already feels from propping a shot tray above her head. Her shoulder aches. But she has no where else to go. Nothing else to do.

She glares at Malle’s arm like it’s a crane diving into that pool of cash. Yumik swallows back some saliva. She wants to kiss Malle, then kill her, before running into the night.