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

here.”
    He stares at me, trapped between anger and
fear, and I stare back. I’ll win, because I don’t pick fights I
can’t win. This isn’t the kind of kid who carries a weapon. He’s
all talk. Confidence is making a judgement and acting on it. I
throw the pieces of his ID past him, onto the floor by the
door.
    He turns, cursing at me as he leaves. He’s
too proud to pick up the pieces on his way out. She’s right on his
heels but I hope she hears me say, “The fuck are you doing with
that guy, huh?”
    The doors swing shut behind them and I see my
reflection in the glass. My hair is short and messy, shadowing my
face and shining in the fluorescent light. My friends say it looks
more gay at night. I agree. I think my facial expression gets
harder at night too.
    There’s something else there—I can barely
make it out in my blurry reflection—that’s almost apologetic. It
says, ‘Yeah. I’m thinking about fucking you. Sorry.’
    I’m undressing you in my head. Sorry about
that. If it’s any consolation, I think you’re beautiful. I love all
your stretch marks and I’ll kiss them from one end to the other. I
love your dry elbows and the way your inner labia flare outside the
outer like a flower. I’ll make them bloom with my tongue.
    There’s an endless parade of older guys,
coming and going. They rarely speak to me. They look tired in that
long-game kind of way. Not like they haven’t slept in a while, but
like they’ve maybe never slept, like they’re never going to. I say,
“Have a good night,” and sometimes, “Be safe out there.”
    A woman in worn out pajama pants comes in.
She looks hungover and sad. I sell her a pack of cigarettes and two
gallons worth of milk in pint-sized containers. I say, “Be safe out
there,” and she walks out without a word.
    They say working a service job makes you hate
people. You’d think the night shift would be ten times worse—and
maybe I’m just lucky—but it’s making me softer, not harder. I feel
like everyone’s mom. Even the loud, drunk people who shoplift don’t
give me any shit. They stumble in and stumble out, the way drunk
people usually keep to themselves on the last train of the
night.
    You’d think Parteek would stress about the
shoplifting, but something must have happened once, because he says
over and over, “Just let them go. Do you understand? You don’t ever
call out to them, or ask them what they’re doing, or fight with
them, or approach them. Just let them go. If they threaten you, hit
the panic button. Otherwise, just let them go, then call the
police, then call me.” Right before he left me alone on my first
night he stopped me again, “Do you understand what I said? Don’t
ever go after the shoplifters.” I said, “Yes. I understand.”
    An old black butch comes in. Her hair is
buzzed, just starting to go grey, with a pair of sunglasses resting
on top. She’s built short and stocky and her sweatshirt hides the
curve between her breasts and her stomach. She walks with her
weight heavy in each foot, like her knees are bothering her. She
nods at me and I nod back.
    I think of the first woman I knew who left
the hair on her chin alone. She called me a baby butch and said,
“We take care of our own.” I felt out of place, like I’d never be
recognized as a part of that club by any other member. But time is
slowly proving me wrong. I feel like gay women are the only people
who don’t care about where I work or what I do or where my degree
is from. They see something in me that they see in themselves and
we reach for each other like a reflex. That’s family.
    My mom won’t ask me about anything in my life
except, “How’s school going?” I say, “It’s going.” I take one class
a week in the summer just so I have something to say to her.
    The butch pours herself a cup of coffee and
adds two little cups of Hazelnut Vanilla cream. She pays the $1.50
with a twenty dollar bill. I hand her back $18.50 and she drops it
in