Purest Fiction: She Could Write Here

When the doors closed at ten, the refugee writer had no appetite.
The waste of food appalled her. The slop bin on her cart swam with flat soda, cold coffee, strands of spaghetti, and cigarette ashes. So many customers chose the triple bacon cheeseburger the author was sure the odor in the apartment stairwell would be a living, breathing thing.
“Hey, bus girl, ya did a good job tonight.” Mavis nodded as she swiped the day’s entries from the chalkboard. “I never did hear your name. Did Bill give you your share of his tips?”
“Yes, he did. I’m Sally,” the author improvised. She wiped her hands on the towel at her waist and held one out to the hostess, who shook it. “This place is busy, and people seem friendly.”
She turned away to empty the slop bin and rinse it. When she looked back, Mavis was sketching a smiling fish and rising bubbles on the board.
“Nah, this was slow. Fish Fry Wednesdays are our real draw. We’ll have a crowd from open until closing.” Mavis chalked “Perch Filet’s, all U can eat, $6.00” on the board in pale blue letters.

The author clenched her jaw. She desperately wanted to speak, but she didn’t need another enemy now.

“I hate this part of the job,” Mavis said. “Ed passed it on to me because he can’t draw. Do you think this fish looks okay?”
The author took a second look, forcing herself to concentrate on the artwork. “I don’t draw either, but you could make the bottom fin in the front a little longer. It’s a bit stubby.” She shut her mouth before commenting on the wording.
Mavis grinned, erased the short fin and redrew it. With a satisfied nod, she dropped the chalk back into its box and wiped her fingers on her apron. “I’ll see you at lunch. Ed doesn’t serve breakfast, but he starts work at ten.”
The author stumbled up her stairs, then descended again to lock the door behind her. The second climb brought her back to the untidy space. She sat on the bed, which creaked, and pulled off one shoe. Massaging her aching foot, she leaned over the head of the bed and snatched at some of the papers stacked against the wall.
The top one was dust-covered and she sneezed forcefully. They were placemats with scalloped edges and ads for local businesses on the fronts. The backs were blank.
Her gaze skimmed along the wall. Four stacks, two feet high. Enough paper for two manuscripts, if she continued to write in epic mode. But could she write here?
The sixty-watt bulbs in the ceiling fixtures gave dispirited light, but above the Laundromat, a brilliant halogen streetlight glowed. She put a stack of the placemats on the table and dragged it across the floor to the other window.
Yes. She could write here.

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Purest Fiction is a short story with twelve parts. Stay tuned for Purest Fiction: Offensive Apostrophe
Read more of my published short stories here.