Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets by Robin Watergrove Page A

to sleep, not awake enough to work. They’re just up at one
in the morning for whatever reason, staring at the single-serve
cereal bowls.
    I’m all instinct when a sleepy girl walks in.
Seeing girls sleepy is half a step from seeing them in bed. Loose
hair, loose clothes. Tired eyes and quiet faces. I’m always
fantasizing about wrapping them up in my sweatshirt. We’d lay right
down on the tile. It’s clean; I just mopped it. We’ll just rest,
all body heat and slow breathing. Take a nap like stacked spoons.
I’ll tell them, ‘You need to rest. I’ll keep you safe while your
eyes are closed.’
    In between the customers, the window
shoppers, the shoplifters, and the sleepy girls who need a nap, I’m
alone. I sit behind the counter, which faces the front doors, and
look out at the sidewalk. Watching people through the glass feels
like watching fish in an aquarium. They’re in front of me, but
separate. They’re the busy ones and I’m the one who’s just sitting
here, watching. They couldn’t possibly be watching me back.
    In the quiet hours, between two and five in
the morning, I’m truly alone. The sidewalk is empty and when
there’s a pause between songs on the radio, I can’t hear anything
but the whoosh of the air conditioning. I walk around the store
like I’m in an indie film. I pretend the world is black and white
and full of jokes. I pretend this is poetic simplicity, not a waste
of time for shit money. But it’s hard to pretend when the radio
just plays top 40 and there’s no one around to laugh with me.
    Parteek calls me during the quiet hours. He’s
paranoid because the last guy working graveyard kept falling
asleep. I pick up on the first ring and try to sound wide awake.
But voices are difficult things to control. I can cover up the
boredom but I can still hear that lonely note under my words. The
sound a body makes when it hasn’t seen another body in hours.
    —————
    On the fifth day, I pass the quiet hours
decorating a soda cup. I write, “Tips are like hugs without all the
touching,” on the side and set it by the register. It’s like I’m
working at an artsy coffee shop, without the irony.
    By the seventh day, I’m recognizing the
clockwork regulars. The ones who come every night. The slightly
less tired ones. The people buying coffee. They’re working late
like me. I’m just another step in their routine.
    Then there are the irregular regulars. The
ones who keep coming around but always seem surprised to find
themselves back in this overly bright Mini Mart way past midnight
again. The college kids who never take out their headphones, like
they can’t get mugged. The guy with the leather jacket who always
asks me to break a five or ten into quarters, and never buys
anything. The girls with black-rimmed eyes hanging out with tall
guys who think I’ll sell them beer without an ID.
    A chubby girl comes in with one of these
guys. I’m sure I’ve seen this guy before. I might have even
rejected his fake ID before. They walk straight to the liquor and
he pulls out a bottle of wine. Weird choice.
    As they walk up to the counter, I see the
white-and-pink print on the front of her shirt that reads, “Bi
Bitch!” My eyes snap to her face. She’s staring at the floor. He
puts the wine on the counter; I ask for ID. He produces the same
bullshit ID he gave me last time. Parteek wants me to confiscate
all the fake ones and give them to the cops. I was willing to let
this kid slide the first time but this is ridiculous.
    I take the wine off the counter because I
hate having to clean up broken glass. He starts talking all the
sudden, “Hey, what’s the problem? What are you doing? Come on…” The
girl’s watching me silently. I use a pair of steel scissors that
must have been around since the 70s to snip the license in half. He
grabs for the ID and I step back, out of arm’s reach. I hold the
two halves of thin plastic between my fingers and say, “Don’t ever
come back in