Too Late: Day 11

Word Count: 66,030

Summary of Events:

Amarina was woken in the night by the monster throwing rocks at her window, which prevented her from sleeping and threatened to drive her mad, so she snuck out the back of the house and decided to see if that young man who'd let her stay on his couch the other night might do the same. Callan was woken by her call and willingly let her in; as he was concerned someone was harassing her, he offered to go out and defend her, but she declined his offer. She left him the lyrics to the fifth verse of the song, but managed to leave before Callan woke again, leaving him disappointed. Amarina was near the end of another long day at work, and glad that she'd soon be able to go home . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

With a sigh she turned back toward the kitchen. She was almost done for another day, which she was glad about, as eight hours of bustling about was definitely a long time, but it paid well, so she wasn’t exactly going to complain.

“Do you need a hand?” she heard someone ask in the kitchen.

“Of course I don’t,” came a haughty reply she recognised as being Zena’s voice.

That was another reason Amarina was glad her shift was almost over: Zena was in an awful mood today, having been snapping at everyone — even the customers — and seeming to be in an incredible hurry as well.

To prove that point, she charged out of the kitchen, plates balanced on both arms and held in each hand.

Amarina stepped aside quickly, pressing herself back against the wall as flatly as possible, allowing Zena to comfortably charge past, only to stumble and drop all four steaming hot meals to the floor, nearly falling herself.

She did, however, manage to keep her feet and immediately turned to Amarina with her face dark and twisted with rage.

Shrilly she swore at Amarina. “You made me do this! You clean it up!”

“I didn’t trip you!” Amarina cried. “You stumbled! I couldn’t have even reached to trip you!”

Zena swore again. “Don’t lie to me! I felt your foot!”

“I didn’t!” Amarina protested.

“What is–” the maître d’ began, striding out of the kitchen only to stop short and swear.

“She tripped me!” Zena swore shrilly. “She has to clean it up, I’m not doing anything.”

“I didn’t!” Amarina protested. “She stumbled.”

“Stop crying,” Zena swore, taking a swing at Amarina.

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” the maître d’ said. “We can’t access the dining room with that mess. Both of you, get cleaning this up.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Zena snapped.

“You want a job by the end of the night?” the maître d’ asked sharply. “I have the power to fire you, and if you disobey me I have every right to.”

Zena indignantly stalked off without another word. The maître d’ ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

“I didn’t trip her,” Amarina said. “I promise. I’d never let food be wasted like that.”

“Look,” the maître d’ said, sounding frustrated, but not quite so angry as he had with Zena. “I don’t care whose fault it is, there’s a mess that needs cleaning up, and it needs cleaning up now.”

“I understand,” Amarina said quietly.

He stalked into the kitchen, barking for the order to be remade while Amarina went to fetch cleaning supplies, grabbing the bin with the heavy-duty rubbish bag and the metal dustpan, noting that Zena was sitting in the staff area scrolling through something on her mobile, likely a social media feed.