Chapter 1

Bracing myself for another working day in Alphabet City, the morning sun filters through the windows of the café and I tie on my apron. "La Bon Appétit," the sign outside reads, but there's little French elegance to the restaurant itself. Its weathered sign swings gently in the breeze, bearing the promise of culinary delight in faded letters. But don't be fooled by the French charm implied by its name – the exterior of the café is unassuming. A scattering of tables and chairs spills out onto the sidewalk, inviting passersby to pause and take a moment to indulge in a cup of comfort. The interior is cozy and cluttered, with mismatched furniture squeezed into every available corner, peeling paint, and cracks spiderwebbed across the tiled floor, all a testament to years of wear and tear.

Upon stepping through the door, patrons are greeted by the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the scent of debatable “fresh” baked goods. The familiar sounds of the espresso machine and the murmur of customers create the backdrop to my daily routine and so far I think I am off to a good start.

A single tick introduces the first order of the day: Macchiato and Cappuccino, whole milk, and light foam – a combo I've made countless times. My hands work quickly, expertly frothing milk and pulling shots with precision. I move with ease that only years of practice would fashion, grabbing another ticket from the queue. The rhythmic sounds of steam and brewing coffee almost lull me into a trance, a rhythm I know by heart.

The flow washes over me and it's as if all the noise around me fades, and I'm lost in my thoughts. In this moment of dissociation, I imagine myself in different worlds. First, I see myself in Paris, adorned in regal gowns, soaking in the attention of fans and paparazzi. But even in this glamorous fantasy, it's too sparkly even for my taste. Then, I envision a drastically simpler life, somewhere on a farm in Alabama, reconnecting with my roots. The idea fills a void, but doubts are spurned by knowing my personal restlessness will linger for this city girl. I'm then drawn to the sea, imagining life beneath the waves, something akin to being the little mermaid herself. The allure of the unknown captivates me, but practical concerns surface because I can’t swim, not swim swim at least. 

As I snapped back to reality, the world around me came into focus with my hands having seamlessly navigated the flurry of tasks. Macchiato, check. Cappuccino, check and two small spoons gently placed on a saucer that typically only functions as decoration, check, check, and check. With a sense of accomplishment, I delicately arranged the finished drinks on a tray, a smile lighting up my face. But the longing for something beyond lingers, planted in the soil of my dreams. 

Suddenly as if hours went by and not moments, the café is flooded with orders. I glance around the suddenly cramped space, trying to account for when, how, and most certainly why. I can feel the tension steadily building in my shoulders. The sounds that were only moments ago so soothing are burrowing with the rash bumbling and buzzing of customers who are all late to work and in a hurry. I take a deep breath that doesn’t stop the consistent pinging of new orders that test my composure. A high-pitched voice breaks the tension.

"Do you got this?" Kitty asks, surveying the chaos. Luella, also known as Kitty, a server, friend, and occasional frenemy, approached the banister of the barista station.

"Where did all these people come from?" I ask. With each ping, my heart rate quickened, and I could feel the pressure doing plie’ across my forehead. I hastily pulled each ticket into the frame, organizing them in the order they appeared on to the counter. My hands moved quickly once again except this time with a sense of urgency, trying to keep up with the relentless stream of tasks. Time started to feel stacked against me blurring my vision of the scene beyond me, still having done this time, and time again I remember to focus solely on the task at hand.  

"Girl, THEY been here," Kitty replied with a smirk. 

The ticket machines wifi must have been down again. I think to myself.

"Great!"I mutter.

" Like the licks of a tootsie pop – they filled in, uh, 1 and uh, 2 and uh, 3," Kitty laughed, her eyes scanning the growing crowd, her laughter felt more like laughing at the pleasure of not having to be me. A joke we often exchanged when the shoe fit. 

Its just me and her for the day shift. It feels like its always just me and her because we are short-staffed. We are always short-staffed, a common occurrence that's become all too familiar at this point and  It's no surprise. Every time we manage to hire someone new, they don't last long. They're quick to complain that the work is too hard for the pay, and honestly, I can't blame them. The truth is, Kitty and I are the ones holding this place together because ​​It's not like we have much of a choice. We need this job. 

As I try to desperately to keep pace, scrambling to pull shots, steam milk, and juggle multiple tasks at once, I make a mess that almost looks intentional. It's not.  Occasionally I glance at the clock, willing the minutes to pass faster so I can escape. When the rush finally subsides, I feel exhausted and drained. I wipe literal sweat from my brow as if I just got done running at top speed on a treadmill and force a smile out of a force of habit as I hand out the last of the orders. 

When the rush finally settles, my mind begins to wander to deeper thoughts about where I should be in life. Twenty-five and still a barista – it's not exactly what I had envisioned for myself. But then again, is anyone really living out their dreams? I can't help but think about my mother. She spent her last days as nurse at Mount Sinai, achieving more than any of us ever thought possible. Yet, I know she had dreams of singing and music, and I wonder if she ever found true happiness amidst her demanding job. The memories of her tireless dedication, the long hours that kept her away from us, and then the sudden emptiness after she was gone, the fire – I quickly push those thoughts aside. I start to ponder about all the generations that came before her, before me. Would they be proud of where I am today? Could I truly brag and boast to my very African ancestors that after all they survived through, sometimes I want to give up because I can’t handle the life of being just a barista. I shake off those thoughts because it's Wednesday – payday – and if my tips and check reflect even a fraction of the effort I've put into this place, then it has to be worth it. 

4 o’ clock arrives and I make my way to the back to collect my paycheck. I approach Pierre's desk and my stomach churns at the sight of him. Pierre is the store manager of "La Bon Appétit". He is a sloppy sloth-footed man, who perspires profusely, his pasty palms leaving clammy residue on everything they touch. He's been recently transferred to manage our "La Bon Appétit" location in Alphabet City from the main restaurant on the Upper East Side. My stomach turns every time I have to interact with him, but he's the one who cuts my check, so I plaster on a fake smile and brace myself for the encounter.

"Hey, Pierre, it's Wednesday. Can I get my check?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

He fumbles through a folder in the file cabinet, his movements sluggish and clumsy. Eventually, he retrieves an envelope and hands it over with a yodel-like exclamation “ Here ya go” he says, oblivious to the discomfort his sheer presence causes me.

I grab the envelope from his outstretched hand, avoiding any contact with his sweaty palms. "Thanks," I say sharply, hoping to end the interaction as quickly as possible. "I'm going to head out now."

Pierre's obliviousness is almost comical as he asks, "Do we have any more customers?"

I suppress an eye-roll, internally scoffing at his cluelessness.

 No duh, I think to myself, but instead, I replied with forced patience.

 "Nope, all the customers have been taken care of. The station is wiped down, and the rest is in Kitty's hands."

I turn on my heel and make a beeline for the exit, eager to escape Pierre's presence and the stifling atmosphere of the café. My shift may be over, but I won’t be free of the burden of this place until I hit the door. My hands tremble with mixed excitement and anxiety. The reality is that last week I overextended myself trying to have some fun for once, which I promised I would not let myself feel guilty for. I tear open the envelope and scan the numbers, my heart sinks with each digit. It's not even close, What the fuck!  and on top of that rent is due. 

…

On the Bronx-bound 4 train, Frustration bubbles up inside me, threatening to spill over. The train lurches forward, its familiar jolts and rattles rock me back and forth like a mother rocking her baby. The motion carries me away from the day but does very little to ease the turmoil brewing inside me. When a couple leaves the crowded train I find a seat by the window, I try to quiet my mind but I can’t. My hands grip the edges of my purse, knuckles gnawing away at the withered leather from my frustration. I feel the weight of my responsibilities pressing down on me like a heavy burden, and for a moment, it's suffocating because its always something. Last month I was late on rent but I was able to make it work by scraping together some tips from the following week. This month's resolutions won’t be so simple or patient. 

How am I supposed to make this work? Am I allowed to have a life?

 Am I only allowed to keep a roof over my head and work?

 Is it even worth it when the paycheck I've worked so hard for falls so short? 

And it keeps falling shorter and shorter. I review my diligent calculations of what my check should have been over and over. 

"This ain't adding up!" I say to myself out loud before realizing I am not alone and THIS is not the time or place to have a meltdown. I don’t need to add "batshit crazy" to the list of my problems and we have enough of that roaming around this city.

As the train reaches overground I watch the world outside the window in a haze of motion.

Still, my mind is elsewhere – consumed by it all. A part of me wants to turn around and go back downtown to tell Pierre about himself and the money that I am missing.

but what will that fix today?

Ask for a raise, but I know that won’t happen. 

I could curse him out, but then I'd lose my job, and I don’t have another one of those lying around.

I shouldn’t have gone out last week

But it was fun, 

I say to myself.

If I close my eyes tight enough I can still take myself back to last week. I see it all in my minds eye. The neon lights of the bar cast a warm glow over the bustling crowd, the air thick with laughter and the clinking of glasses. Maurice and Malaika are close to me, their laughter infectious as we weave our way through the throng of people.

The music pulsates through the speakers, setting the rhythm for the night ahead. Maurice gestures towards the bar, a mischievous glint in his eye. "First round's on me," he declares, flashing a grin that lights up the room. He had the first round and I had every round after.

With a cheer, we make our way to the counter, the bartender already pouring shots with practiced ease. Malaika screams, her voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "To new beginnings," she says, raising her glass in a toast.

We clink our glasses together, the sharp bite of the alcohol warming us from the inside out. The night stretches out before us, full of promise and possibility.

As the hours slip away, we lose ourselves in the music and the company of good friends. Maurice comes close occasionally kissing me in between bragging about his job as a Creative Director. He can’t help himself. He flexes and tells every detail about the C-list people he meets, the sets he’s been on, and the glorious nature of work-happy hours. I soak up every story.  He is and always has been one of the coolest people I have ever known. I always knew he would make it and here he is doing the damn thing. Though we have never been exclusive sometimes he makes it feel like we are and last week I felt it.  

 Malaika, my best friend leans against me, her laughter bubbling up like champagne.As the night wears on, we find ourselves lost in the rhythm of the music, our bodies moving in time with the beat. For a brief moment, we're free – free from the constraints of everyday life, free to simply exist in the moment. In this moment, surrounded by friends and enveloped in the warmth of the bar, all worries and cares melt away and I forget they even exist. I forget who I am, I forget where I am and I got ahead of myself. 

As the train comes to a screeching halt, I cling to my regret like a lifeline, and while I may be weary, I refuse to let go, but I have to. I know I can't afford to dwell on it now – there's no time for self-pity because that's just the way it is – another day, another piranha or whatever they call it. Around me, fellow commuters chatter and laugh, oblivious to the storm waging within me and I chuckle because I wish I could do the same.

Exiting the station, something catches my eye. Huddled against the cold concrete, is a figure that looks oddly familiar. It takes me a moment to place him, but when I do, I’m certain. It's Will Clifton, we used to go to school together. He played basketball at Clinton High School, where his skills on the court were legendary. Even now, years later, the echoes of his glory days still linger in the memories of those who watched him play. 

His face worn and weary was almost unrecognizable, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of  how I knew him. In school Will was a striking figure, his presence commanding attention everywhere he went. 6’5 at 17 With chiseled features and a strong jawline, he exuded an air of quiet confidence that assured everyone that he was meant to be famous. His skin, a rich shade of ebony, gleamed under the sunlight that now held a permanent shadow under the moon. 

For a moment, I'm frozen in place, unsure of what to do, not knowing if I should walk pass him or speak. I was taken over by pity in a way that I typically never hit me walking pass strangers in the same position. The sight of him made all of my anger vanish and silenced my mind. I stepped back and after weighing the lesser evil chose to say something even if I didn’t know what to say.

“ Hey Will” I said. It wasn’t much but it was a start. As if the sound of his name had not been said for some time he slowly looked up to meet my gaze. His head was so tightly balled into himself as he sat on the steps of the Burger King only a few paces away from the station. As he unballed himself it looked so unreal and physically impossible that someone so grand could be wound so tightly in such little space. 

“ Xzi??” he said peaking up at me. I walked closer to him quickly so as to not draw too much attention to us. As I drew close it was his eyes that truly captivated me, large and round, brimming with intensity. I forgot how much I loved his eyes when we were younger. They seem to hold a world of stories, each glance offering a glimpse into the depths of his soul. There's a certain magnetism to them, drawing you in and refusing to let go.

He coughed. I fought my reflexes to not take a step back though my neck did otherwise.

“ I don’t want you to see me like this, I don’t want anyone to see me like this” 

I didn’t know what to say because I understood. So many of us are only a step away from being where he was and it is some of our worst fears to even think of being there at all. I imagined what it might feel like to be living a cautionary tale. I didn’t want to ask how he got there, it wasn’t my business, so I didn’t. I just wanted to not humiliate him. I wanted to help. I thought about his cough.

“ Are you sick Will? Can I help you?” 

“ Nah, Nah” he stammered burying his head again and speaking only loud enough for me to hear him“ I don’t want to bother you. I can’t believe I’m even here, like this”

I paused.

“ Will, you coughed and I don’t know what's going but, but I don’t have much myself, and who knows maybe I’ll be in your shoes one day but if you're okay with it. I’d like to get you some cough medicine 'cause you don’t sound good”

I waited for a moment, hoping to get permission from him to care of  him in some way. When a few silent moments passed I walked to the nearby RiteAid to gather what I hoped would help. A blanket to weather him through the fall nights, some water, some cough medicine, and some throat lozenges. It wasn’t much but it was what I could afford. I quickly ran back to where I found him and to my surprise, he was still there maybe because he had nowhere else to go.

“ Will I got this stuff for you? I live around here so if you ever want to talk to someone I’m here. I don’t know what's out there but I’ll help if I can” 

I placed the cloth bag beside him and began to walk away right before he says 

“ Xzi, Thanks” ​​He looked at me with a mixture of gratitude and humility, his eyes betraying a depth of emotion that words could never capture. And in that fleeting moment, I see a reflection of myself – a reminder of the fragility of life and the way that we live. 

As I walk down the bustling streets of my neighborhood, my mind is consumed by thoughts of the stark contrast between wealth and poverty that defines the very fabric of my city. The neon lights of the bodegas, supermarkets, banks, and bus stations illuminate the sidewalks, casting long shadows that seem to stretch out endlessly into the night. I pass by the rows of boutiques, churches and chinese resturants, places where the residents of the neighborhood have forged a sense of cultural familiarity and comfort because they needed a place to come home to. Some of them wear designer labels and drive expensive cars to feel like they are so far away from where we actually are, to imitate wealth though not being wealthy, to keep up.  But just around every corner out here, the scene shifts dramatically – the streets become narrower, the buildings more dilapidated, the faces of the people more weary.

Despite my hardships, something makes it hard for me to not see it. I can’t nor have I ever been able to turn a blind eye to the suffering that happens here. Though I don’t have much and really don’t feel like I have anything it didn’t seem such a big loss help Will, to try and make a difference.

…

I step through the door of my cramped apartment, rewarded for making the daily pilgrimage up the five-story walk-up by a familiar scent of adobo and season-filled rice and beans. The aroma sweeps the stale air of the two-bedroom apartment I share with my two roommates Kate and Sam.

Distant sounds of city life drift through the open windows – offering comfort as I navigate the cluttered space.From the kitchen, I hear the muffled sounds of conversation, where Kate and Sam are no doubt discussing plans for the evening. 

The space is a symphony of contrasts – a reflection of the diverse personalities I live with. The living room is Sam’s domain, though compact, it is a vibrant tapestry of colors and textures, each piece of furniture telling a story of its own.  A fuschia and Bustelo-stained couch sits against one wall, and across from it, a battered coffee table serves as a makeshift dining surface, piled high with textbooks, takeout containers, and half-empty coffee mugs.In one corner, a towering stack of board games teeters precariously, evidence of Sam's boundless energy and love of competition. Their room serves as a stark contrast to Kate's more subdued aesthetic. Posters of their favorite anime characters cover the walls, while a collection of brightly colored blankets and Squashmallows add another pop of color and juvenile youth to the space.

 Meanwhile, In the big bedroom, Kate's shrine to Taylor Swift takes center stage, the walls adorned with posters and memorabilia from her favorite artist. Her passion for all things Taylor is evident in every aspect of the room, from the framed concert tickets to the Taylor Swift-themed throw pillows that adorn the her futon. Kate's penchant for all things vintage is evident in the collection of thrifted knick-knacks that line the shelves, their neutral colors and worn edges adding a touch of nostalgia to the room.

I don't linger to join the jubilee – I can't bear to face them. Instead, I make a beeline for my room, a small sanctuary tucked away from everyone at the back of the apartment, so secluded that if I walk ever so gently they may not even notice that I came in. Here, amidst the clutter of textbooks and notebooks, I find solace in the familiar routine of reviewing and neglecting my online coursework from Fordham University. I look over at the picture of my mom thumbtacked to wall. Its one of the few pictures of that adorn my room. If it wasn’t for her I definitely would not be doing or finishing any of this shit. 

With a deep sigh, I sink into the comfort of my desk chair, the soft glow of my laptop illuminating the dimly lit room. The rhythmic tapping of keys fills the silence, a comforting feeling of being productive no matter how trying it is. Click, Course, Click, Click, Due Assignments, Click, Drop Down, Biology 101, Histories of the African American Diaspora 102. Biology blah we can leave that for a less stressful day. I’ll take a historical discussion about Queen Nzinga of Ndongo and Matamba, Alex. This was followed by writing a four-page paper on the history of the resistance and rebellion of the fight against enslavement.

As I lose myself in the intricacies of my coursework, the worries of the outside world continue to nag at the edges of my consciousness but not long before a gentle knock by Kates chatters across my door.

“ Xzi are you in there?” she calls through the door.

“I didn’t see you come in but I wanted to ask about the rent because Juan called and he wants to make sure we are going to pay on time this time.” 

We have a 10 day grace period in New York. If I lived alone I would take advantage of that law and order but I don’t.

With dread I hold my breath. I should have been thinking about my answer instead of doing homework.

I keep trying to be responsible. Not trying hard enough it seems. 

With only seconds to decide I debate if I am going to do my favorite approach to avoidance which is faking sleep or will I take the more mature route of actually communicating. 

“ Is she even in there?” Sam asks hastily. 

“ I think she's in there. I heard her typing.” Kate whispers.

Damn, what should I do? 

“Should I open the door?” Kate ask.

I flinch. If she opens this door I am going to have to curse her out on principle alone but then again I am hiding in here. 

“ DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR. She has a right to privacy” Sam scolded.

With Sam defending my right to privacy I decided to fake sleep because if I can save face I should and I will. I am tired anyway.

I check the due date on the assignment through a sleepy haze and see that I have another two days. I’ll take it and drift to sleep. 

…………………

I jolt awake to the persistent ringing of my phone. Groggily, I fumble for it on the bedside table, squinting at the bright screen. My stomach flips as I see the time glaring back at me—9:30 AM. Panic sets in as I realize I overslept, knowing I was supposed to pick up my grandmother's medication and groceries hours ago and I should have already been at work. I unlock my phone and navigate to my messages. I know I'm already in hot water for being an hour late to work, and not I have to let Kitty and Pierre know that I'll be even later.

My fingers tap out a quick message, trying to convey my apology and explanation in as few words as possible while grabbing my hoodie, and work clothes. "Hey Kitty, Pierre, I'm really sorry, but I'm going to be about two hours late. Overslept and got caught up. Will make it up to you both when I get in. Sorry again."I hit send, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in my chest.

With a curse under my breath, I scramble out of bed, my limbs feeling heavy with sleep.  I jump in the shower simultaneously washing my face and brushing my teeth.  I quickly throw on some clothes, not bothering to worry about how put-together I look. What a way to start the day. I hate this feeling, knowing they are relying, but there's nothing I can do now except hope they understand and forgive me. 

As I tiptoe out of the apartment, I do my best to avoid running into my roommates. Whether they are asleep or off to work I will never know and can’t bother to find out. I can't bear to face their questioning looks or hear their judgmental remarks about my irresponsibility. With a heavy sigh, I shove my phone back into my pocket and continue on my way to the pharmacy, bracing myself for the inevitable consequences of my lateness

Outside, I pick up the pace, determined to make up for lost time. My grandmother depends on me, and I can't let her down. I weave through the streets, dodging pedestrians and cars in my haste like a sewing machine to fabric, back and forth and two slides to the side, hustling to get to the local community pharmacy where my grandmother has been administering her blood pressure medication since before I was born. 

Arriving at the pharmacy, I burst through the door, breathless and disheveled.I approach the counter, expecting to be greeted by Phyllis, my grandmother's usual pharmacy technician. She's always been so helpful, guiding me through the process of picking up my grandmother's medication with a kind smile and reassuring words. But today, there's a different face behind the counter—a young trainee, looking slightly overwhelmed as she fumbles with the register. Taking a deep breath, I approach the counter and quickly rattle off my grandmother's name explaining that I'm here to pick up her medication. The trainee nods hesitantly, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she attempts to pull up my grandmother's records. Minutes tick by, each one feeling longer than the last as she struggles to navigate the system.

After what feels like an eternity, she manages to locate the prescription. Relief floods through me as I hand over my grandmother's Medicaid and CareFirst card, confident that everything will be sorted out smoothly. But my hopes are dashed when the trainee furrows her brow, her fingers tapping furiously on the keyboard. 

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "But it looks like this medication is no longer covered by your grandmother's insurance."

A flash of heat cascades down my shoulders. 

“ Are you serious? My grandmother needs this medication to manage her condition, and we can't afford to pay for it out of pocket. She gets the same medication every three weeks!” 

The look of shock on the attendant face forces me to try to compose myself. 

She’s new and doesn’t know. I tell myself but the ticking of a clock that I know is still running because I still have to drop the medication off to my grandmother and get to work means I don’t have time for her to learn on my clock. She needs to know.

Desperate for a solution, I plead with the trainee to double-check, to see if there's anything she can do to help us. I can’t believe the medication is not covered because Medicaid is said to cover everything or at least I though. But she shakes her head, apologetic but firm in her response.

The Manager walks over to assist. 

“ Can I help you?” 

You think. 

Yes, Sir. I come and pick up this medication for my grandmother every three week and phylliss normally helps me. It is typically covered by the insurance. Could you please double check and see if it is covered.

“ Our systems shows this particular brand of blood pressure is not covered under her insurance and hasn’t been for over a year, other brands are but we can call the insurer to see if our records are incorrect. Who do you say has been helping you?” 

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. 

“ Ive been coming here for years and there has never been any problem when –” 

I stop myself. I don’t want to get Phylliss in any trouble. 

“ when who??” 

“There is no time to wait for however long that is going to take to call the insurance.”

I start to think quickly. Though I don’t have the money, the last time I let them switch her prescription brand she couldn’t use the medication because it made her sick. 

“ How much is the medication?”

“ The payment for this form of blood pressure medication is going to $142.75”

Great over a hundred dollars. 

I sigh and slowly hand over my bank card and snatch back both insurance cards. The trainee swipes it with ease, hands me the medication, a receipt and smiles while saying 

“Thank you for shopping with –” as I dash out the door. 

With the medication in hand, I breathe a sigh of relief. I practice smiling as I knock on Mama Deli’s door sure not to show any sign of frustration or overwhelm. I don’t have much time to talk even less time to hear her worry. Dolores "Deli" Baker, my grandmother, is a force of nature wrapped in a blanket of love. Despite the trials life has thrown her way, she remains a vibrant soul, her spirit unyielding despite the confines of her wheelchair. She may be confined to a wheelchair, but in spirit, she soars free. She’s everything I have and everything I aspire to be even in her fragile state.  Once a glorified hippie and activist in the tumultuous era of the 70s, Her brown eyes, though half blind from the passage of time without wearing her glasses, still twinkle with mischief and determination. Two knee surgeries for arthritis and a relentless grip of carpal tunnel that runs rampant in her hands may have slowed her physically, but they've done little to dim her fiery spirit. 

Despite being confined to her apartment due to construction outside, Deli refuses to let it dampen her zest for life. She fills her days with art projects, gardening (even if it's just a few potted plants by the window), and spirited debates about the state of the world. Her apartment is a sanctuary of warmth and love, adorned with trinkets and black nationalism artwork from her activist days. The air is thick with the scent of incense and the gentle strumming of funk music fills the space. Like a vortex being there always takes me back to my childhood and her inner world as if I am in place of all our own, just her and me. Its an outer body experience everytime I come there now that I am older. I can see myself, the little me running through her 1 bedroom apartment like it was a playground and everytime I scraped my knee or behaved unruly I would reach up and stretch my little limbs to this woman, who felt so big when I was so small for a hug and kiss an somehow that made it all better. I wished I could go back there. 

Things now were very different. Our world together which at one time felt soo big had now become so small, still filled with love but at time bare of much to eat or explore. 

Still somethings never change. 

“ Hi my ZZ” Mama Deli greeted me. Still with a kiss and whole body hug. I try to stay in the hug for a moment.

“ Hi Mama” 

“ I’m sorry I’m later.  I ran into some trouble at the pharmacy and I got a late start” 

Damn I shouldnt have said that 

“ what kind of trouble ? was phyllis there?

“Here is your medication. I wasn’t able to get the groceries like I told you because I had a late start but I’ll come back after work.”

“ oh don’t worry baby. I think I have some oatmeal and juice and eggs and turkey bacon in there. I can take care of myself” 

I make my way to the kitchen, where the smell of brewing coffee greets me. The familiar routine of brewing a pot helps me relax a little bit more as I prepare breakfast for my grandmother. Every time I see her she gets smaller and smaller, which scares me. 

 I set her favorite oatmeal on the stove to cook slowly, knowing she'd appreciate the warmth and comfort it brings. I open the fridge to see it basically bar, there a few eggs, a wishbone salad dressing, some browning lettuce, a half full gallon of milk, and some margarine. The cuppered is even more scarce.

“ Mama you been eating?”

“ I had a couple of granola bars and some milk with my coffee”

“ What did you eat last night?”

“ Oh child, I don’t remember. I think some leftover Yam and Chicken”

Thats a lie. 

“ Okay so you have kind of been eating. I have to go but I will be right back later to cook for you and bring you back groceries” I say kissing her gently on the cheek.

I wait just long enough for the oatmeal to be done and walk her back to the couch. As I place the old snack tray down her hands begin to shake. She groans mildly but its normal. I look her over in her house floral pink and blue house dress, somehow she manages to keep her beautiful silver hair curled and tucked to the side. 

I grab a blanket to wrap around her. As I situate her to make her comfortable I can hear my phone ringing to what abnormally sounds like it is off the hook, it continues to buzz and ricochet back and forth in my pocket from various notifications. I place the oatmeal and some water on the snack tray for her to down the medication when she is ready to take it. I turn the TV and force a smile. 

“ Love you mama, Ill be back after work okay” I say before heading towards the door. 

“See you and love you soon ZZ” she says watching TV and I blow out a lonely blowing candle as I lock the door.  

…

I hustle through the crowded subway station as my mind buzzes with endless to-do list awaiting me at work. As I reach the platform, the manhattan bound train arrives rumbles beside me on the track and rush to jump aboard. Despite having another half an hour ahead of me. I finally have time to look at my notifications. I slide my phone out of my pocket, intending to check my email for any urgent messages. I check to see if any jobs applications have gotten back to me because I have been applying. I don’t want to be a Barista forever. Another rejection letter, okay you can’t win them all even if so far you haven’t won any. 

My heart lurches at the sight of a series of notifications from my bank.

With a sinking feeling, I tap open the first email, my pulse quickening as I read the words. "Low Balance Alert," it declares in bold letters, a stark warning that sends a shiver down my spine. I scroll through the messages, each one delivering another blow to my already frazzled nerves.

I open up my account information and my stomach churns as I realize what's happened—a sizable chunk of my savings has been drained to cover unexpected school dues, a payment I hadn't budgeted for or anticipated. And with the recent expense of my grandmother's medication added to the mix, I'm teetering dangerously close to overdraft territory.

Panic threatens to consume me as I stare at the screen, a feeling of my efforts seeming futile takes me over. 

I wish my mom was here. 

Dont think about her.  You can’t change that.

I don’t know what I am doing…

Stop. Stop. Stop. 

Taking a deep breath, I try to quell the rising tide of anxiety.

 I can't afford to fall apart now, not while I’m on the way to work. You need the money

Everything will get better.

As I step off the train, my phone suddenly erupts with a barrage of notifications. I get hit with several messages from Pierre urgently demanding an ETA for my arrival because the restaurant is swamped and he and Kitty do not know how to work an espresso Machine. Several messages come in from Kitty inquiring about my whereabouts and calling me everything but a bitch.

As I step into the restaurant disheveled and half dressed, I hang my head from guilt and embarrassment  bracing myself for their wrath and preparing myself for chaos of rush hour. Instead its eerily quiet when I enter the store.  The cafe's first and second rush has passed without me. For a moment I am relieved but as I see Pierres contorted face, lined with stress, I can tell the battle has just begun. 

“ Where were you?” he says 

“I woke up late” I say nearly swallowing my tongue. 

“ You woke up soo late that you missed not only the first rush, but the entire morning. Its 12 PM Xzio - Mara. 

I have never heard this man say my name outloud. He avoids whole sentences when speaking to me just to not say my name out loud. It took moments of me repeating his annunciation of my name to even come back to the present to respond. 

“ We lost thousands of dollars because you could not wake up early enough to make it on time or at least around the time for the shift that you do EVERY SINGLE DAY”

Thousands of dollars? You make thousands of dollars in coffee and milk and my last check with $475.00 

Thousands of dollars as profit for selling coffee and tea and you can’t seem to do a renovation of this so called cafe. 

The humility of knowing where I was wrong was the only thing that kept me from fuming. 

“ I’m sorry” 

“ Yes, you better be sorry. Also where is the rest of your uniform”

Okay, now hes dragging it. I never miss a day. I can’t afford to miss a day. If I have days off, I don’t use them. 

“ Its right here in my bag.” I shows him the jansport book bag that I keep my uniform in.

“ Anddd your not even dressed. Great!!”

I sat quietly waiting for him to walk away.

Kitty continued to walk back and forth acting as though she was wiping down the tables. I could tell somehow she was enjoying this. 

“ Get dressed. Please and next time, there should never be a next time” He said as he puffed and walked away. 

What happened next was purely because some part of me was itching to keep my dignity. I knew I didnt mean to be late, I knew I didnt mean to be irresponsible. I knew I didn’t want to let anyone down. I knew I didn’t deserve the little money I made given how hard I worked. I knew. I knew and so quietly to keep something like dignity inside of me. I muttered to myself

“ It wasn’t thousands of dollars” 

He turned on his stumpy heels and in a voice so high  and indignant it didn’t sound like it was coming from him he barked “ what did you say?”

I got quiet. 

“ No, what did you say?”

“ I don’t think my absence lost us thousands of dollars is all. I am sorry I was late and not here but I work everyday and lately check seems shorter and shorter and I understand why your mad but I genuinely didn’t mean it.”

I felt like I deserved some grace. 

He didn’t.

“ Well it cost us something and more than something it cost us alot and for that reason I will be taking this out of your paycheck”

“ What! Are you kidding me? What paycheck? Its barely any pay on the check. Your a joke.” The words escaped me but at this point, I had enough of him and his sweat glands. 

“A joke? I’ll have the last laugh you can leave for the rest of today and not come in tomorrow”

“ and how about the next day and the next day and the next day after that” It was as if my mouth had a mind of its own, like my lips had got so tired of being closed together they couldn’t help but stay open and with them out came every comeback I ever wanted to say to him. 

“ Okay! Then your fired” 

I stopped dead in my tracks. What did that even mean?

There I was and like a switch I backtracked.

“Fired? Wait, wait, Pierre, you can’t fire me, we don’t have another Barista here. It just me. Its been me for three years” 

“ I can and I just have. Kitty is more than capable of doing the job as she proved today.”

I swore I heard Kitty gulp. 

“ I, I..” There was a frog in my throat and I could not speak. 

“ Please leave you work shirt and all items at the front.” He said and he walked away to the back office. 

I did none of what he asked and instead just trudged out the door. I could feel Kitty looking after me with glass eyes searching to say something but what could she say? 

As I step outside, tears welling in my eyes, I whip our my phone out of force of habit. There was knowone I wanted to talk to. I see another series of messages one from Maurice and another from Malaika. I open Maurice's message, dreading what I might find.

“ We need to talk.” 

No, not right now. No we do not. 

With nowhere to go I aimlessly wander until I find myself at Tompkins Square Park, I’m not ready to hop on the train, too afraid that spending a moment underground will allow the literal darkness to consume me. I take on a park bench, hoping that if I soak up some light and fresh air that embrace of the rare nature amongst the concrete jungle will hold me. I can feel myself longing to cry from the stress mounting, fighting not to but I’m losing the fight. I try to distract myself with Instagram Stories maybe if I can escape into a strangers life I can leave mine. I see pictures of people I used to know on vacation, pictures of girls I went to highschool and college with showing off their latest outfits and proving how pretty they still are. Their vanity amazes me but right now I appreciate it. Some of them post pictures of their babies, boyfriends, and even husbands. They are growing families.  It makes me think that one day maybe that will be and this will all be behind me, maybe one day Maurice and I will be something more, something real. 

I start to calm down. The thought is nice. A call comes in from Ms. Patty, my grandmother's neighbor. She helps check on her from time to time. I wipe the tears away from my cheeks and answer the call cause she doesn’t call often. I place her on speaker

“ Hi Ms.Patty” I say my voice raspy from crying

“ Hi Xziomara. Are you okay? Your -” 

I continue to scroll. Something about the mindlessness of it all relieves me. 

“ Yes, I’m fine.” I lie. Interrupting here “ Is everything okay with Mama D” 

I stumble across a story from a girl from Fordham.  The post: A picture of a sonogram thats caption “ We’re Pregnant” at  MoDirections.

Oh, thats nice shes having a baby. 

I look at the tags at  MoDirections. With trembling hands, I scroll through the damning evidence on my phone. It hits me like a ton of bricks— this girl is having a baby with Maurice, my Maurice. My blood runs cold as I realize the implications, my mind racing with questions I don't want to answer.

And then, as if the universe is determined to crush me under its weight, Ms. Patty's words cut through the chaos—my grandmother has fallen. “ Your grandmother is in the hospital, shes gonna be –” 

I can't breathe. I can't think. All I can do is cry as I stumble towards the park exist, the world spinning around me in a dizzying blur. In a moment of raw desperation and helplessness, a thought flashes through my mind— it can all stop if you just let go.

Oncoming Traffic led by a box truck makes its way through a green light. I say “ let go”. I close my eyes and  I step into the street without a second thought, engulfed by the blare of horns and screech of tires that drown out the deafening roar of my anguish and I feel nothing at all steeling myself away for darkness to descend.