5:34 a.m.
My key fits perfectly in the lock. With one swift turn, I hear the deadbolt flip and the door swings open. Security alarm beeps that ear-splitting sound.
Beep-ding..BEepp-DIngg..BEEPP-DINGG.
Enter the code to turn that damn thing off.
I head to the front of the store, dragging my feet, jonessing for coffee. Light switches are found and my eyes have a difficult time adjusting. Count money, assemble slicer, make coffee. The aroma fills the store as I put clean dishes away from the night before. I keep a close eye on the clock, knowing customers will be waiting for me to open at the top of the hour. Before flipping yet another deadbolt, I grab my soy milk from the refrigerator to doctor a cup of Columbian Blend.
There’s something so serene about this time of day, sipping my joe and enjoying the silence.
But, alas.
The clock brings on the storm. I see headlights outside the front window and reach for my keys. Co-worker Miranda greets me at the door with a pan of eggs, followed by Bill, looking for breakfast.
9:47 a.m.
It’s a busy morning. Amidst breakfast specials, I’ve made sandwiches for the case and worked on the bank deposit. All the regulars come and go; we ‘shoot the shit’ like old friends, although, in perspective, I haven’t known them long. Help has arrived, so I take a moment to enjoy a little breakfast, refill my coffee cup for a third (maybe fourth) time. From the kitchen outside, Miranda brings in the soup of the day—Asian Vegetable Beef—and sticks around to chat while giving her creation a final stir. She decides to add a dash more of the secret Asian Sauce, but spills in the process, leaving a trail of spicy goodness on the counter.
I quickly wipe up the mess as more customers pile inside, looking for lunch.
11:15 a.m.
Crickets.
A once chaotic atmosphere has become quiet, which gives us a chance to play catch up. I pull the foods from the refrigerator necessary for a successful lunch rush, unwrapping and slicing as I go.
Turkey, Ham, Pastrami.
Cheddar, Swiss, Provolone.
Pickles, Tomatoes, Onion, Lettuce.
All makings of a great sandwich.
As time passes, more patrons file in and the line-up on the other side of the counter begins to look like one at a police station. I tell my customers so, and they all laugh. One woman looks fairly uneasy; I’m guessing this is her first or second time here. She opens her bag of Doritos and begins to snack as she waits to be helped.
“Ah, ma’am?” She hasn’t looked at me yet. “Ma’am?” Her head turns. “You can’t do that here. We have a strict policy on eating items before purchase.” The look on her face is one of horror, mixed with embarrassment. Within seconds, I can’t stifle my laugh any longer. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist. Is there anything I can get for you?”
Still unsure, she replies, “Medium broccoli salad.” 
I smile, scoop her request, and move onto the next customer. Even though this woman may have thought, “Gee, she’s a little nuts,” she’ll be back, looking for harassment.
1:59 p.m.
Again, quiet. The afternoon shift has started, which means I’ll be leaving soon. I mentally prepare a list of projects for them and, as I walk by in search of pen and paper, take a peek at the sandwich case. Those poor girls. They’ll be making sandwiches for a few hours as it felt like most everyone in the valley stopped in today. Finding appropriate utensils and a place to write, my list comes to life:
o Chop cherry peppers
o Stock chips
o Wipe out bottom of cooler and fridge
o Make salsa for tomorrow’s breakfast
That should be enough to keep them busy. One of the girls prepares to go to the bank, taking the deposit and a list for change.
“Wait!” I shout a little louder than I should, but she freezes in motion, so, mission accomplished. “Grab a ten from the till and stop at the store for a few limes, would ya? You’ll need them tonight.”
All I get is a look of puzzlement, so I continue, “For salsa.”
Confusion evaporates.
She leaves, looking for citrus.
2:23 p.m.
Home.
Peace.
Quiet.
Looking for a nap.
4:31 p.m.
Front door slams and I wake with a start. His footsteps, heavy up the stairs, make me cringe with every thud. Thoughts of getting up fill my head, but my body protests. Just five more minutes. I can hear him swinging his keys—that kid loves the sounds of them jangling together—and he makes his way to my bedroom door. His voice carries well through our poorly insulated apartment, threatening to make a commotion if I don’t come out of my room. I imagine his fist as it hits the door with every pound and irritation sets in.
“Enough already.”
Pounding stops.
Reluctantly, I dig my phone from the sheets; scan missed calls and text messages. Nothing important.
*sigh*
Another threat comes from the other side of my door.
“Coming!”
With effort, I make it to my dresser. The scent of delicious food wove its way into the fibers of my clothes, which now smells almost offensive. As I change, the roommate becomes increasingly impatient.
“Let’s GOOO! I’m HUNGRYYY! We’re gonna be the last ones there!”
“Ben, I swear…” Emerging from my sanctuary, I see he didn’t even drop his keys.
“Ready?”
And we’re off, looking for our friends.
7:04 p.m.
Breadsticks? Tasty.
Most delicious pizza? Mmhmm.
Cherry beer? Oh yessssss.
Being the loudest, most obnoxious table in the joint with your closest friends? Looking for trouble.
8:42 p.m.
Stuffed like turkeys, Ben and I sit on the couch. We’ve been home for a while, enjoying the thuds our neighbors call music, not really saying much. Just when I’m tempted to call it a night, he jumps from his comfy spot and runs into the kitchen.
“I made these today,” he says, fumbling with something on the counter.
Curiosity gets me and I follow. Not even two steps onto the hardwood, a plate is shoved in my face with a big, mouthwatering brownie sitting on it.
“For me?”
“Yep.”
I have to stop myself from drooling and start…looking for a fork.
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