The Billionaire And The Waitress (gxg)

02 - a tampon

MUSE MUST HAVE killed a black cat.

     Or stepped under a ladder. Maybe she'd accidentally broken a mirror, or opened her umbrella indoors. No―it had to be two weeks ago, when a spam number had sent her chain mail, and it went something like: Forward this to 10 people in the next 24 hours or a little girl with a chainsaw will murder you in your sleep ...

     Muse had to have done something to merit all this bad luck.

     This morning, it had started small: her alarm hadn't gone off. She'd woken up, an hour later than she should have, swearing. Her job started at nine, and she had fifteen minutes to put on her makeup, her waitressing uniform, ride the subway, take two buses and clock in. Naturally, she'd been late. On any other day, nobody would have normally noticed. But today, Richard Vergara―the owner of the restaurant―was doing a check-in.

     So then, Julie―Muse's manager―assigned her to cleaning duty. No tips, which meant Muse would have to sacrifice either her hydro bill or her electricity bill for the week. And she was up to her elbows in murky water, cleaning the residue off rich people's plates. She'd had worse jobs, but it had only gone downhill from here. Because then Fernando, who hated Muse, had tapped her shoulder.

     "You're not pregnant," he'd said. Under his breath: "Bitch."

     Which had completely bewildered her, until she'd realized: she'd just gotten her period.

     And her waitressing uniform was white.

     Now, Muse abandoned the sink full of dirty dishes, knowing she'd pay the price later. She was twenty-six, she'd worked a million minimum-wage jobs, but if she left this piece of her dignity go, she'd have none left for later. So, after apologizing furiously as she brushed past Julie on her way to the employee bathroom, she stole a pair of unwashed white pants from the storage room and took off at a run. 

     It had to be a black cat, or a broken mirror, or that stupid chain mail message. 

     Because when Muse got to the employee bathroom, it was out of order. 

     Good thing there were two. 

     Muse made it to the second one, only for Ashleigh―one of her coworkers―to pout with a saccharine smile. 

     "Sorry, Muse." No matter how many times Muse corrected her, she always pronounced it as Muse-y. "They told us at the beginning of the shift we'd have to use the customer ones. There'll be a plumber by noon, if you can hold it that long." She barely concealed her judgment while saying at the beginning of the shift, as if Muse had been late to personally spite her.

     "Oh," said Muse. "Thanks, Ashleigh."

     "No problem. Um." That was when she must have noticed the red on Muse's pants. "Need a tampon?"

     "No, thanks." 

     Knowing Ashleigh, it would probably be poisoned, or have spikes, or sterilize her somehow. Ashleigh seemed nice, but Muse had learned her lesson on her second day at the Cayenne steakhouse, when Muse had been given her first high-priority table, serving two low-key celebrities. Ashleigh had immediately complained to Julie, saying it was her right to have that table (she was experienced; she deserved the big tip), and Julie had just shrugged in response. 

    Ten minutes later, Ashleigh had asked Muse, Can you pick that up for me?  Muse had reached down to grab a fallen carrot off the floor, and Ashleigh had spilled a five-hundred dollar bottle of wine on her head.