Break room stories and being ‘read’


I had a quiet Sunday as Joe wanted to work in the garden but very early, like 5 am. I got up at seven and helped him move a few trees which were shading the flowers underneath too much.

‘They’re not flowering so a bit of Dynamic Lifter in water should do the trick,’ he said.

We went to another café for morning tea and it was nice to relax and be waited on. This café used numbers when placing our order and we got the right order of coffees, cappuccino in a cup for me and in a mug for Joe. I couldn’t help watching how the girls worked with a guy on the Barista who was probably the boss, being much older. I wouldn’t fit in here if they only have girls taking orders and bringing out the food and drink.

Last Friday I was ‘read’ as the community calls it. She looked like a dyke with pink dyed hair, leggings and a long shirt with Doc Martens on her feet. I took her order and nothing was said but she was looking at my chest and not my crutch.

            ‘It’s OK, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to say anything out loud.’

            I was so taken aback I dropped my pencil, my cheeks flared up (thanks to the T) and I handed in her order. When I returned she asked me when I got off work.

            ‘Five’, I said.

            ‘I’ll be back, if you don’t mind chatting.’

            ‘No, I’d love to chat.’

            I could see my boss eyeing us off and he intimated that I had found a friend. Whether she was a fair weather friend or not, I would soon find out. I was remembering the BreakRoomStories blog which linked to mine. They were often regaling us of stories about unpleasant customers. Lately they’ve been offering happy photos to help us through our shifts.

I don’t remember much of the rest of my shift as I was too excited about meeting this new friend after work. I had to concentrate on my orders and try not to mix them up. I really had it bad. It felt like a first date would, all butterflies and worrying that I wouldn’t make a fool of myself. But it wasn’t a date, only a meeting. Did the T make me more susceptible to women? Come on 5 o’clock.

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