There is no cheerful clatter of pans, or old Beatles records spinning in the living room. No warm cinnamon smell fills the air – only burnt coffee. For a moment, I'm half expecting Papa to swoop me up ... [+]
Eszter is a former teacher who lives by the windswept British seaside. By day, she teaches and cleans up after preschoolers. By night, she writes flash fiction and stories for children. "Petrichor" is in Short Circuit #15, Short Édition's quarterly review.
My shift is over. And not a minute too soon. I'm on the verge of tears. I'll have to be back in less than seven hours. My armpits are clammy, I'm feeling uncomfortable, and I just want to go home and sleep.
But he's watching me; waiting for me to join him at his favorite table. Sometimes he even smiles at me. I really should be firmer with him. For my own good. This whole situation is not healthy for me. I'm starting to lose weight again. I'm awake at night for hours on end. I don't know what I should do.
I gotta go, I mouth to him, tapping my watch. I take off my apron and hang it o