Waving Not Drowning

"I think that went well, don't you? Not too painful, I hope." Nothing's quite as inspiring as this man standing before her, flop sweating, blissfully unaware of his awkward courting. He means well, she knows this; but "not too painful" still involves a whole lotta work on her part. Oh, that's mean, she thinks. Bad, bad Julia. Be nice, play well with others. She glances at her phone and knows if she can extricate herself now there's still time to hustle home and pour herself a tumbler of Red Breast before she has to call it a night. Finally satiate her palate. It's clear to her. She likes her own company the best. She did discover a hip new local, though, populated with an unexpectedly queer positive crowd kitted out in matching plaid button-downs and ironically sloganed t shirts: I'm OK, You're OK. Their server was a close talker, gregarious, maybe high, maybe happy, with a pop culture awareness that disappeared at 1987. The ...

Sharon stumbles over her uniform balled up on the floor, a tangled knot of grey and blue polyester, slick with oil and smelling like poverty. Too tired to hang it up or toss it over the kitchen chair she peeled it off, layer by layer. A trail of desperation and struggle. She crawls into bed defeated, exhausted. This schedule will be the death of her. Three hours of sleep and no end in sight. Not now, anyway. Somewhere down the line, he told her. Put your dues in and you'll see. Trust me. Sharon's got no time for trust. She's too tired to play the long con. Twenty one or slots. No dealer's choice for her. Everyone's got a finite amount of time, you just don't know the count. The only thing she can count on is no sure thing. Twenty three years, she's no further ahead then when she began. A hand out, a leg up, a free ride. If she'd only said yes. Just once. The right guy at the right time, the right place, the right job. Opportunity kn...