Time and Time Again (Maybe #2.5)
Chantal Fernando
Three weeks.
It’s been three weeks since I lost my job. Cuts had to be made, and I was the youngest and had been there the shortest. It wasn’t as though I loved my job at the hotel, but it paid the bills. Now, I am in desperate need of another job. I’ve applied everywhere I can think of, and I’ve even been to two interviews, but nothing. My resume isn’t that impressive. I finished high school and was hired straight away as a receptionist at Western Hotel. I’d been there for two years before they fired me, and it was the only work experience I had. I was living pay check to pay check, and now my rent is three weeks overdue. My landlord gave me one more week before he would kick me out. I had no savings or credit card. In other words, I’m screwed.
I suppose I could always go back to one of my parent’s houses, but I don’t want to. They live in Melbourne, which is on the other side of the country, and I have no intention of going back there to see them any time soon. Standing up from my seat on the bus, I walk to the exit and hop down the step.
“Thank you,” I call out to the bus driver then make my way down the street. I was wearing a professional looking outfit. At least I thought it was. A black, knee-length pencil skirt hugged my hips and matched my crisp, white shirt that didn’t show too much cleavage. My red hair was pulled away from my face in low pony tail, and my complexion was make up free aside from some mascara and eyeliner rimming my green eyes. My heels make a clicking noise as I scan the shops, bars, and restaurants, looking for a help wanted sign or anything that could give me some hope. I was down to my last fifty dollars, and it wasn’t looking good. I’d been surviving on two-minute noodles, fruit, and tap water for far too long, and it had begun to take a toll on my once curvy figure.
That is the least of your problems, Clara.
Buying a newspaper as I walk past the newsagency, I take a seat on a bench and skim over the employment ads. Pulling a pen from my handbag, I circle a few of the job positions I think I could manage, most of them being reception or retail work. I don’t think I’d be very good at sales, but I am good at customer service. Sliding the newspaper under my arm, I walk into a few businesses and ask if they’re looking to hire anyone. Three say no, and one says maybe, stating they will give me a call. Feeling hopeful, I head to the closest coffee shop to splurge on a latte. After paying the cashier, I take my warm drink and walk back towards the bus stop. As I’m leaving the coffee shop, however, I bump into someone.
Or did he bump into me?
My latte falls to the ground, splashing both of us on the way down.
“Shit,” I mutter, the newspaper under my arm falling too. Wiping my hand down my now, not-so-crisp white shirt, I lift the material away from my skin so it doesn’t burn me.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” comes a deep, masculine tone.
I look up into a pair of dark eyes.
“It’s okay,” I mutter. “Just seems to be the month I’m having.”
He runs a hand over his shaved head. “Your shirt is ruined.”
“I’ll live.”
He reaches down and picks up the newspaper, glancing at it before handing it back to me.
“At least let me give you my shirt,” he says, staring at the stain on my left breast.
I raise my eyebrow. “You going to walk around shirtless then?”
He smirks. “Not quite.”
He pulls off his black shirt, revealing a white wife beater underneath.
Holy muscles.
My eyes grow wide at the sight of his broad shoulders and ripped biceps, and I couldn’t help but notice a flash of his smooth, hard chest through the thin material.
“I didn’t know they made them like this in real life.”
“What?” he asks amid a soft chuckle.
I snap out of it. “What? I didn’t say anything.”
His lips kick up at the corners as he hands me his shirt. “It’s not necessary.”
“You looking for a job?” he asks. “I might be able to help.”
I glance up at him in suspicion. “What kind of job are we talking about here?”
He grins at that, rubbing his hand over his goatee. I never liked goatees, but on him, it was hot. Everything about him was. “Nothing like what you’re thinking. Bar work. Why don’t you come in tomorrow night and we’ll see what we can do?”
“Really?” I ask, unable to mask the hope in my voice.
His eyes soften. “Yeah, really. You ever heard of Knox’s Tavern?”
I nod. I had heard of it. It was meant to be one of the best bars in Perth.
“Come find me there tomorrow afternoon,” he says, taking a step back. “Ask for Tag.”
“Thank you,” I reply, clutching his shirt to my chest. “I really need this job.”
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks, studying me.
“Clara.”
“Clara,” he repeats. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I swallow hard. Could it really be that easy?
I didn’t have anything to lose; that was for sure. A bar was a safe, public place, so nothing could go wrong.
I watch as Tag swaggers away, probably unaware that he just made my year. Smiling to myself, I head to the bus stop.
Maybe my bad luck was about to change.