His brows come together, looking as if he will say more, but I don’t give him the chance. This interaction with him is already more familiar than I’m ready for.
With a quick wink, I grab my purse and slip across the congested floor of Saint Street.
I risk glancing back at him once more before walking up the stairs to the exit. To my surprise, he’s still watching my retreat, his mouth tilted up at the side.
Hating the way my body reacts to that, I scurry up the stairs, but not before a small smile sneaks its way onto my lips.
After that night at Saint Street, my week continues on and every day I manage to get back into my routine a little more than the day before. Like today, I’ve been on my feet for the past eight hours filling scripts for customers, and of course it has to end with a rude one.
“I need two refills on this medication. Why are you being so difficult?” the woman, who initially looked sweet, yells at me. Sweet my ass. This woman is a right bitch and I don’t care how old she is.
“As I told you before, Ms. Bonneville, I can’t give you two refills at once. There are specific instructions on your script that say no more than one every thirty days.” I try to keep a firm, even voice. If I’m too soft, people will think enough nagging could eventually cause me to give in, but if I’m too firm, they’ll accuse me of being rude. And man, I really want to be rude.
“What do you know? You’re not my doctor. You’re not even a doctor. I want to speak to your superior.” Her face twists up in a snarl as she tries to peer over the counter, probably looking for Joan. Too bad for Ms. Bonneville, because I’m the only one here today. Tuesday afternoons are notoriously slow for us. Well, honestly, most days are pretty slow. With big pharmacies opening all over the place, it’s hard for the little guy.
I resist dragging my hand over my face, instead plastering on a smile and looking her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bonneville, but I’m the only pharmacist here today. Now, I can happily fill this prescription for a one month’s supply, or you can come back tomorrow when Joan is in and speak with her. But I must tell you, she will say what I’ve already told you. Unless your doctor calls us, we can’t give you double dosages. I’m sorry.”
Just when I think she’ll relent and let me help her, she narrows her gaze at me before spinning on her heels and hobbling out of the store. But not before I hear her mumble “bitch” and “kid” in the same mouthful.
A small laugh bubbles out of me as she reaches the door, her head lightning quick as she turns to glare at me one final time. Despite my professionalism gnawing at my insides and telling me to stop, I lift my hand and wave at her.
Huffing, she leaves the store, and I attempt to hide the shit twinkle in my eye.
Definitely worth it.
Good thing Joan isn’t here; otherwise, I might get reprimanded.
Another thirty minutes later and I’m finally able to get the fuck out of here, my stomach grumbling for a snack and my feet a comfy chair.
The keys to the front of the store jingle in my hand as I turn them in the lock, making sure we’re secure for the night. I resist the urge to smell my fingers, knowing that pesky lingering metallic scent will still be there.
With all in order, I begin the walk home just before seven p.m. My feet ring out against the cobbled pavement as I walk through Notting Hill, the pastel houses a stark reminder that I’m finally home.
I know by tomorrow the streets will be filled with market stalls and merchants ready to sell everything ranging from crepes to antiques. You might occasionally find Emilia there; that’s how she met Stana.
As I pass the array of shops closed up for the night, the small crowd of people in front of the movie cinema gives me pause.
It feels like years since I’ve been, and for some reason, despite my aching feet and hollowed stomach, I can’t help but drift over. My hands reach for my wallet to pay for a ticket. I pick the only seven o’clock showing, some Marvel movie about an ant. I’m not sure it’s going to be my cup of tea, especially considering I’ve seen none of the other films and have no idea how an ant can be a superhero. But, well, here we are.
I pay, then shove my debit card back into my wallet and practically sprint to the snack bar. With a large popcorn and Maltesers in sight, I’m a happy gal. I might not love movies, but the snacks always make it worth it. Throw in a large Coke for good measure.
I can practically taste the goodness on the tip of my tongue. Ugh, my mouth waters at the impending deliciousness coming my way. After the lad in front of me pays I quickly read off my order, my acrylic nails tapping against the murky glass cabinet below my hands. First the stinky keys, now this; I need a sink and soap ASAP. I pull my hands away when the young boy comes back, my glorious treats in hand.
I don’t care what anyone says—you can’t go to the cinema and not get food. I mean, why would you go then? And don’t say it’s to see the movie.
“Thanks,” I tell the boy, whose face tells me he’s about as thrilled to be working here as a squashed animal on the side of the road.
Hands full, I attempt to sneak a bit of popcorn, sticking my tongue out to grab the top piece. After a skillful move on my part, it’s a success.
“Lottie?”
My name being called catches my off
