Lana

 

“She’s taking everything,” David says, leaning against a crate of coffee granules and massaging his forehead. It’s a few minutes before my shift starts and David, as he often does, is complaining about his situation with his latest wife. I’ve only worked here at the Twin Peaks for around nine months and yet I’ve seen David go through two divorces, one he was finalizing as I joined, and now this one.

 

I want to say to him: “Then you should stop getting married so quickly.” But I’m going to request something from him today, and I can’t risk annoying him. No, better to wait and let him blow off some steam about this latest botched marriage.

 

He talks for around twenty minutes as I lean against a cardboard cutout of a giant coffee mug and wait for him to finish. He complains that he truly thought he loved this woman and that she loved him, that he doesn’t understand why women are always divorcing him, and how he can’t comprehend why it’s so difficult to find true love. I nod and make all the right noises, the uh-huhs and yeahs and I knows. David tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his oversized, baggy pants, tugging at his oversized shirt. David is a tall, thin, skeletal man with dented cheeks and hollow-looking eyes, the sort of eyes that always look bruised.

 

When he’s done, he says, “I’ve kept you from your shift. What’s the matter with me?” He waves a hand. “Go, go, don’t let me keep you. You’d think the owner would have more sense.”

 

“I wanted to talk to you, actually, to ask you something.”

 

It’s strange, but since that night with Kade a couple of days ago, my mindset has started to shift. Subtly, sure, but shift all the same. I’ve started to think of our night together as empowering, as something I chose to do, as something I willingly participated in: just the sex, just the passion. And I’ve started to think that the fact that he left might not be such a bad thing after all. We had the best sex of our lives and that’s that. We enjoyed each other’s bodies. Maybe I’ll see him again; maybe not. But it’s more than that. Feeling empowered about Kade has made me feel empowered about other things, too, like my safety here at the Twin Peaks. If I can choose to be with a man—if I can make that decision for myself—then I ought to be able to choose to be safe here at the Twin Peaks. That’s the thing, I think. Control. I want control. I want to control how my life plays out.

 

“Yes?” David arches an eyebrow.

 

“I would like you to either hire another waitress for the early morning shift or reschedule one of the waitresses so that I’m not working alone. Look,” I say quickly, when I see that he’s about to interrupt. “It’s not safe for me to be here alone this early. Anything could happen.” I give him a quick rundown of what happened with Chester. “I realize that you need to make money, David, but you should also care about the safety of your baristas.”

 

I make sure to keep my voice soft and free from accusation; the last thing that will win over a perpetually-divorced man like David is accusation from a woman, I reason.

 

He pauses for a long time.

 

I say: “Plus, sometimes two cars come at the same time and I’m forced to make one of them wait, which is poor customer service. The people driving through here come for two things: quick service and a peek at some boobs. We don’t want them telling their friends: ‘The women are the Twin Peaks are fine, but the service isn’t.’”

 

This seems to get through to him. His pitted eyes glance up at me, and I know I’ve got him. David is a nice enough guy, but even a nice enough guy cares more about his business than his employees when he’s dealing with multiple alimonies.

 

“I’ll hire one more, just for your early morning shift,” he says. “I actually have a girl who’s applied a couple of times now. Expect her tomorrow morning.”

 

“Thanks, David.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” David mutters, shaking his head. I know what he’s thinking just from the way he stuffs his hands in his pockets, like a cowed kid: Women. It’s never enough. Or maybe that’s just the creative writer in me.

 

Smiling to myself, happy that I am finally taking control of my life, I take off my overcoat, put on my heels, and get ready to be gawked at, winked at, blushed at, and, hopefully, tipped.