Thursday morning smelled like burnt coffee and dread.
Sasha arrived at 8:55 a.m., apron already tied, hair pulled tight, determination on her face. She would not snap today. No matter what Debbie did, no matter how chaotic the shift got, she would keep it together.
She dropped her bag in the breakroom and headed for the kitchen.
Luis was already there, flipping through the prep list like it owed him money.
"Morning, sunshine," he called. "Ready for battle?"
Sasha didn't answer. Her eyes darted to the dish station.
Empty. Clean. Silent.
She exhaled. Maybe today would be different.
At 9:02 a.m., Debbie walked in.
On time. Apron ironed. Hair tied back neatly. No scowl.
Sasha and Luis exchanged glances.
Debbie clocked in silently, walked to her station, and started washing dishes without a word.
Sasha blinked.
Luis whispered, "Who is this, and what did they do with Debbie?"
"I don't trust it," Sasha muttered.
For the first two hours, things ran… smoothly.
Dishes were cleared. Plates were washed. Sasha and Debbie moved around each other like coiled springs, polite but distant, like strangers in a small room.
Even Carla noticed.
She peeked in around 11 a.m., clipboard in hand, eyebrows raised. "No casualties yet?"
Luis held up a clean plate. "It's a miracle."
Sasha smiled. "Let's not jinx it."
But at 12:15 p.m., the tension snapped.
The dish drop filled quickly — a birthday party table had just finished eating, and Sasha rushed into the kitchen, arms full of plates.
She turned the corner — and stopped dead.
Debbie was on her phone. Again.
The dish drop sat full.
Sasha carefully placed her plates on the only clear edge, forcing calm.
"Debbie, dish drop's full."
Debbie didn't look up. "I see it."
Sasha's voice tightened. "You're going to wash them, right?"
A pause.
Debbie looked up, expression blank.
"I'm not happy."
Sasha sat outside on the loading dock, head in her hands, the late afternoon sun beating down.
She didn't cry. She never cried at work. But her chest felt tight, her eyes burned, and her stomach twisted.
She'd yelled at Debbie — again.
She'd nearly thrown a plate — again.
And now, Carla had called her a liability. Maybe not in so many words, but the meaning was clear.
Sasha heard footsteps. Luis.
He handed her a soda, cold and sweating.
"You're not Debbie," he said.
Sasha didn't answer.
Luis sat beside her. "You're just pissed. I get it."
"No," Sasha whispered. "It's more than that."
Luis looked over, waiting.
Sasha continued, "I wake up tired. I come in angry. I leave worse. That was her — every day. And now… it's me."
Luis cracked his soda open. "Difference is, you care."
Sasha laughed bitterly. "Caring doesn't matter if I still make people miserable."
Luis shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe it's how you care."
Inside, Debbie packed her things slowly.
She stared at her locker, at the dent on the door from an old tray she once slammed.
She heard Sasha's voice from earlier — the anger, the hurt.
Debbie sighed.
She wasn't the villain. Not in her story.
Just tired.
Tired of being blamed. Tired of being watched. Tired of fighting.
As she zipped her bag, she wondered if Sasha would last.
Or if one day, Sasha would sit where she was, counting her teeth, wondering when it all became too much.