From the concrete curb of the 7-11, the sky is the color of cat vomit. Its occasional streaks of pinkish salmon and tinges of an unflattering mucus shade of yellow are etched across the cityscape of downtown Detroit. “Some sunset,” she mutters between the puff of her Marlboro and a sip of the water bottle, filled too its brim with raspberry flavored Taaka, her favorite. The previous Dasani canister contains an almost transparent liquid, like normal water, but there are flecks of a green substance present like she melted a lime jolly rancher and quickly deposited the remains into the leftover vodka. The strangers that walk by the gas station pretend not to notice the thick stench of alcohol that surrounds her, instead, the citygoer’s continue their conversation surrounding a game of a bridge and something about a Middle Eastern conflict. She lets their conversation dissipate in the frigid city air; her pounding head can only focus itself on the whaling cry emerging from a car nearby and the sting of the vodka as slips down her throat. A police man’s siren roars, its light flashing rampantly, as the patrol car hurriedly moves down the street stretched before her sending a shard of blue light across the rigid shape of her profile, blinding her momentarily. The light catches the metallic lettering on the nametag she wears, the Waffle House logo shimmers above her name: Katy, K-A-T-Y, but right where the ‘’y’’ is she has scratched it out with a black sharpie and written “ie”. She giggles to herself, amused at how such a simple name could be so butchered on her dirtied uniform. After taking another long inhale from her cigarette, she checks her wristwatch letting a smiling Hello Kitty stare back at her from behind the glass encasing on the bracelet, 7:47. Her break ended five minutes ago. She quickly jumps up from the concrete and runs the half block up the street, letting the flickering sign of the Waffle House serve as a guiding light in the darkening streets of Detroit. The sun disappears behind a skyscraper as she edges toward the yellow and red bricked building; the 2nd “f” of the Waffle House has almost died completely by the time she reaches the entrance. It feels as if she forgot to breathe completely, her lungs ache as she wraps her arms around the familiar shape of the street pole, allowing herself to be bathed in the florescent glow of the sign above. She slicks back her faded blue hair and winds it around a white scrunchy she haphazardly tucked into her pocket that morning pulls over a black and yellow visor, and lets the ding-dong of the bell greet her as she opens the restaurant’s door.
“Hello, Katie.”
“Mr. Skyler,” she says as she wedges her way behind the breakfast bar. The golden-toothed smile he gives her causes her to find a more productive task than small talk with strange coffee customers that probably work as daytime perverts. She averts his glazed doughnut hole eyes as her hands robotically find the coffee pot and refill his empty mug. He begins fumbling with the loose change in the breast compartment of the jacket.
“No charge,” she mumbles as she wipes down the counter.
“Here’s five cents. Do something nice for yourself.” He winks. She keeps scrubbing the crusted-on syrup.
After the doorbell chimes, meaning Mr. Weirdo has exited, she looks up for her work and flips the nickel in her palm before emerging from behind the counter. The 70s themed jukebox next to the restroom door hums in the almost empty space of the restaurant, and she unintentionally finds herself standing in front of the neon yellow and pink lettering of the “Groovy Tunes” music box. Her hand slides the coin into the slot and flips through the racks of songs before selecting “How Can You Mend A Broken Heart” by the Bee-Jees. The waitress hums the tune to herself and begins to do a small dance as she gathers more empty mugs scattered around the counter and finds three dollars in tips by the time she’s finished.
The tune almost consumes the entirety of the now cleaned restaurant. The booths, the bar stools, the microwave seem to infect every inch of it, and for some reason it looks like that the 2nd “f” on the Waffle House sign has never been brighter.
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The final customer has gone when she looks down at the heap of dishes in her arm. More work before closing. Her tray is filled to its brim with saucers covered with caked on bits of waffle and orange juice glasses as her body heaves open the swinging door leading to the back of the kitchen. She checks her watch, 11:12, “Awe, damnit.” She heaves a sigh as she pulls the phone out of her pocket. Dials the number and puts it to her ear, it seems to ring forever before-
“Carlos, yeah… Hi, listen I get off my shift in 10 could you pick me up?”
“Sure, sure thing, sweet cheeks.”
“Good. After work I figured you and I could maybe go to that new bar a few blocks away you were talking about? It’s called Dawson’s Tavern. I think that’s what you called it? Anyways, I figured it would be nice for us to, you know, just have some fun and you can stay at my house afterwards. My roommate moved out so there’s no one at home right now and-“
“Sounds awesome, babe. I’ll pick you up soon. Look I gotta go, alright?”
“Oh okay, yeah, um, love you.”
“Love-“
He must have accidentally pushed the end button. She remembers that his new Blackberry had been acting weird when he came over to the apartment a few nights ago. “That’s what it was,” she whispers to herself as she picks up another dish glued to her hand by maple syrup, more sugar and water than maple; she starts making the familiar round circular motions with her hands as she slathers the soap onto the plates that clamor around the edge of the sink. Just studies her muddled reflection in the dirty dish water. Her blue hair, dampened by sweat, was lightening back to her natural mousy brown; the eyes she had contracted from her mother’s DNA were colorless, just black holes perfectly matching the dark circles under her eyes. She’s disrupted and water splashes as she hears the familiar honk of the horn blare from the alleyway behind the café’. She peaks her head outside the door leading into the bricked crevice of the buildings.
“Gimme a second, I need to change,” she yells over the roar of the engine.
She pushes the door closed and turns to find her boss, Amy, mopping the floor in front of the stove.
“Amy, I’m out for the night. I’m just going to slip in here and change really quickly.”
Amy doesn’t say anything, she never does. She just gives a small nod and returns her gaze to the semi-wet floor. Katie tugs the Under Armor changing bag into the employee restroom and quickly switches out of the uniform, smelling of a mix between burnt coffee grounds and chili cheese fries… She didn’t even know if they served those. She pulls her hair out of the scrunchy and gives a quick brush, matting the ratted ends and straightening out the knots formed during her work day. Her hands reach into the bag and pull out a small black sleeveless dress, nothing special, and leather jacket tucked inside with a pocket knife, just for safe keeping. “When I moved out here, my dad promised me that if I was going to get to get mugged I better be prepared,” is what she told everyone who asked.  In the side of the tote she finds an extra tube of raspberry red lipstick and lathers it onto her chapped lips; she looks just like he would want her too: loose. Before slipping on the two dollar glittering gold heels, she crosses her heart and whispers, “I won’t get too drunk,” and ducks out before Amy can even glance up from the cracked tiles.
She stumbles down the concrete steps into the alleyway, a little exasperated from such a quick change. Her boyfriend emerges from the car, the red lipstick still smudged from where he tried to remove it from his collar; he smells so thickly of jasmine and cigars. She stares at him feeling herself stab a dagger through his cheekbone, but only in the back of her mind.
“Well, Carlos… seems you’ve been busy,” she says as her fingers trace the shape of the lips, she flips the collar. “This is the fourth time. If you’re going to cheat on me you should be cleaner. It’s been three years now I’ve seen enough of this.”
“Look, you and I are both here for a good time, don’t ruin that baby. So just be quiet, get in the car, and I promise to give you a good time like we always have. And besides, it’s not like we actually are in an exactly in a perfect relationship, Mandy.”
“Mandy? It’s Katie, Carlos. Katie, it’s not that hard to remember.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No you said, Mandy… Is that her name Carlos? Was she nicer than me? Did you have a better time with her? Did you have fun at her house after you took her home from dinner?”
“Katie, I promise it’s not like that. It was just one time and we aren’t going to see each other anymore. Look, I swear.”
He doesn’t smell like my perfume, is what blares through her head like a radio with the volume on too high.
He takes her wrist in his gently as she tries to jerk it away.
“Let go, Carlos. Look this is enough.”
He bends her wrist tighter and she screams as he pins her against the front side of the alleyway, her eyes centimeters away from the graffiti on the wall. She wails before he smothers her with his hand. He’s got her by the arm in a much too tight grip.
“You’re going to give me a good time, whether you like it or not.”
He begins fidgeting with the zipper of his jeans, and she jerks her hand free. Her brain feels like it’s about to erupt and spew lava over the side of the Waffle House building, she can feel herself vomiting on the inside. She trips on a hole in the gravel, and scrapes her knee. A small cut, but the 2 inch heel is wedged into a hole in the concrete, and she’s frozen like a sculpture. He grimaces at her, “Not so smart, are we?” He places his thumb on the edge of her lip smearing the lipstick onto the side of her face as her hand fumbles for the possibility of a broken beer bottle littering the pavement. That’s when she remembers. She reaches into her leather jacket, and clicks the knife open. He starts to fidget with the zipper again, “Stop moving,” he says attempting to smother her with his tattooed hands.
She speaks, one word at a time, letting her voice be fixated like cement into the night air, “Get. Off. Me.”
Her hand reaches up and he’s unable to see the hilt of the pocket knife coming before she wedges it perfectly into the center of his t-shirt. His eyes bulge from their sockets, and he stumbles backward falling onto the concrete. The crimson liquid oozes down his chest making puddles around his quiet body. He looks at her with a fear and lust, she’s never seen before.
Katie pulls her heel out of the hole and stands above him. She watches his body start to heave in small motions like hiccups as she smoothly withdraws the knife from its socket and quickly wipes the rest of the blood onto his shirt. She can still hear the small, pathetic breaths that escape his lips. The Waffle House waitress leans into his still frame and whispers into his ear, letting the raspberry shade of her lipstick melt onto his earlobe, “Not so smart, are we?”