Holiday Retail (Micro-Fiction Monday)

I hate Christmas. How can I not, really, when the scratchy PA system is blaring Christmas carols louder than it should be, threatening to blow the speakers at any moment? How can I not, when seemingly everyone within a twenty mile radius has left the majority of their Christmas shopping until December freaking 23^rd, and somehow have fallen under the misguided impression that I am to blame?

Working retail is bad enough. Retail during the holidays? I’d rather saw off my arm and cook it for Christmas dinner.

“I have a coupon!” one woman screams at me.

“That coupon expired yesterday,” I try to explain to her, for what was probably the twentieth time.

"I just got it in the mail yesterday!” she yells. “How can it be expired already?”

How can I not hate Christmas when the general public makes it so damn easy?

I’m not a big fan of the snow, either. Or the cold that comes with it. I’m bundled up so much that I take up twice as much room as I barrel through the mall, eager to get out before I start sweating under all of my layers. Nobody apologizes when they bump into me; neither do I.

I pause in front of the entrance to yet another busy store, the crowd so thick that even with the padding of my parka, I can’t plow my way through. Someone touches my shoulder. I brush them off, ready to keep moving, until a candy cane is thrust into my face.

I snatch it and turn, my glare cranked up to death level. Once I get a look at him, though, it’s incredibly hard to keep my glare steady; he’s standing next to the entrance of whatever store—a boutique, I think—wearing a ridiculous elf costume, complete with goofy shoes and a hate covered in jingle bells. A basket was hanging in the crook of his arm, filled with more striped candy canes.

He grins at me. “Merry Christmas!”

I turn away quickly, face reddening. “Merry Christmas,” I mumble, hurrying along.

I look back once, before I turn the corner. I can barely see him through the busy shoppers, smiling and offering candy canes to everyone who walks by. He doesn’t seem to be working for the mall or any store in particular—he’s just here to hand out candy canes because he wants to.

His smile must be contagious, because I catch myself smiling a real smile for the first time today.

~~

Until later,

- Justyme

Smile (Micro-Fiction Monday) (BEDS #22)

57. 58. 59.

                

Sixty. The blocky numbers on the wall flash from 8:14 to 8:15. I jump up from the less than comfortable chair in the staff room and burst through the swinging doors, the morning murmur enveloping me as a welcome.

                

“Hey,” I say to my coworker. She wears a brown apron, identical to mine, and her hair is tucked into a bun that is neat and annoyingly perfect. “Care for a break?”

                

She hands a customer their change and gives me a strange look. “My shift just started.”

                

“Never too early for a break, though, right?”

                

She turns around, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back against the counter. She stares at me for a minute, and I keep smiling, the forced casualty making my cheeks ache. She looks like she’s about to say something, but must decide against it, as she shrugs and walks away. “All yours.”

                

I immediately take my place at the till, even though the customer she was attending to is long gone and has yet to be replaced. I sneak a peek at my phone, hidden in the pocket of my apron. 8:16. Any second now.

                

A bell chimes, signalling the entrance of a new customer. I shove the phone back in my pocket and look up, my customer-is-always-right smile beaming.

                

It’s him. He approaches my till slowly, gazing at the menu like he hasn’t been here a million times. I already know what he wants, but I don’t start to type it in until he voices it. Oh god, his voice.

                
He takes his coffee, smiles, nods, and leaves. It’s the same every morning—right down to my smile. Not forced for customers or nonchalance, but one that is all too real. 

~~

Until later,

- Justyne