In His Sheets

I am fucking tired.

If I have to serve one more sorry-ass, rude rich couple with their fake smiles and diamond-studded entitlement, I might as well just throw myself under the next delivery truck.

My life is nothing but hell — working four jobs, unpaid bills, student loans, a sick mother, and a landlord who bangs on my door like I owe him my life instead of rent.

Where the hell do these people find their money? How do they do it?

I slumped against the counter, watching the couple in the booth sip their early-morning coffee like life owed them peace. She had a ring the size of my my entire life, and he had that bored, rich look the kind that said he’d never had to choose between food and electricity.

They didn’t even look at each other. Just scrolled through their phones, sipping, existing.

And still, they looked like they had it all.

Meanwhile, my hands smelled like espresso and regret.

The bell over the door jingled. And another stuck up family of three walked in. My shift wasn’t over, but my patience sure as hell was.

“Hi, welcome to Maison Caffè” I paused, forcing a breath through my teeth and trying not to choke on my own irritation. “I’ll be your attendant for today. What would you like to order?”

The woman barely looked up from her phone, tapping her long, glittered nails against the screen.

“Non-fat caramel latte. Extra whip.”

Her husband or maybe sugar daddy, he definitely looked much older than she was, but who was I to judge, he didn’t even glance at me.

“Black coffee,” he muttered, eyes still glued to his watch like it had secrets only he could understand.

Of course. The usual.

“Coming right up,” I said with my now-perfected customer-service smile. You know, the one that says I’d rather die than be here but sure, let me get that for you.

I turned, grinding my teeth as I punched in the order. The smell of coffee beans should’ve been comforting, but after four jobs, it just made me sick.

My boss, Derek, leaned against the espresso machine, pretending to look busy but mostly just watching me like a hawk waiting for his prey to mess up.

“You’re late again, Collins,” he said without looking up from his clipboard.

“I’m two minutes early.”

“Two minutes late if we are actually timing it correctly, and I could cut your pay because of that.”

I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted blood. “Noted.”

“Don’t test me Collins, I don’t have as much patience anymore.” He warned me.

The rest of the shift dragged like a slow death. By the time I clocked out, my feet were numb and my cheeks hurt from fake smiling. The world outside was all noise — honking cars, perfume, and people who looked like they’d never worried about rent.

It still sometimes surprises me how I managed to land a job this side of town, when my real life was hours away in the slum.

I caught the bus home, pressed against the window, watching the city blur past. Everything glittered, but not for me.

When I got to the apartment, it was quiet too quiet.

“Mom?” I called softly as I unlocked the door.

Her voice came faintly from the bedroom. “In here, sweetheart.”

The same scent of disinfectant and medicine hung heavy in the air. I dropped my bag and went to her bedside. She looked smaller every day thinner, weaker, but her smile still tried to pretend for my sake.

“You’re home early,” she whispered.

“Early?” I laughed bitterly. “It’s almost midnight, Mom.”

She tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough. I reached for the glass of water on her nightstand and helped her sit up.

“I made some soup,” I said. “It’s cold now, but I’ll warm it up.”

Her hand brushed mine weakly. “You work too hard, Mara.”

“Yeah, well… someone has to.”

I smiled at her, the real kind this time, but inside, something twisted. Because no matter how hard I worked, it was never enough.

The soup was barely cold when I pulled it from the fridge, the electricity was gone for time days and I was yet to receive my paycheck. Luckily nothing was in the fridge except the soup, same pot I’d made two nights ago and stretched into as many meals as possible. My stomach growled, but I ignored it.

I heated it over the small gas burner, watching the orange flame flicker against the dented pot. The kitchen light hummed overhead, one of those cheap bulbs that made everything look a little sadder than it already was.

When it was finally hot enough, I poured some into a bowl and carried it back to the room.

“Smells good,” Mom whispered, her voice faint but soft.

“Liar,” I said with a small smile, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’s barely soup anymore. Just hot water and hope.”

She smiled, weak but genuine, and that was enough to make the exhaustion in my chest twist into something tender. I spooned small portions, blowing gently before bringing it to her lips. She ate slowly, every swallow followed by a shallow breath.

When the bowl was empty, I wiped her mouth gently with a napkin and helped her lie back down. She was already half-asleep by the time I tucked the thin blanket around her shoulders.

“Try to rest, okay?” I murmured.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she said, eyes fluttering closed. “You have another shift.”

“I know.”

I brushed a stray hair from her forehead and turned off the lamp, letting the room fall into quiet darkness.

In the small bathroom, I changed into black jeans and a crop top the outfit I hated most but paid the best. The one for my other job.

The club didn’t care if you were tired, or broke, or if your mother was dying. It only cared if you smiled and looked like you wanted to be there.

I pulled my hair into a messy ponytail, stared at my reflection for a moment, and sighed.

“Fake it till you make it,” I muttered.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Joan, my neighbor from across the hall. She answered on the second ring, voice already groggy.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said. “Can you come stay with my mom tonight? Just in case she needs anything.”

“Again?” she groaned, but not unkindly. “You working the club?”

“Yeah. I’ll leave some money for you on the counter.”

“Don’t worry about it, babe. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Thanks, Jo. I owe you one.”

“You owe me like, ten.”

“yeah I do owe more than ten.” I said laughing.

When I hung up, I stood by my mom’s door for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing. Then I grabbed my jacket and stepped out into the night. The hallway smelled like old paint and damp cement, but outside, the city was alive, music pulsing in the distance, laughter echoing off walls I could never afford to walk through.