“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Tryst has five minutes to finish cleaning up his station at the coffee shop and clock out if he wants to make it to his daughter’s first birthday party in time. It’s a miracle he was even invited — her mother doesn’t like having Tryst around, and then proceeds to label him as a “deadbeat,” when that’s the farthest thing from the truth.

Tryst is almost frantic as he hurriedly wipes everything down, puts everything away, restocks, disables the drink fountains, etc… You just amusedly watch him. You have no idea why he’s so stressed.

The manager suddenly walks in. “Where are you going, Trystan?” He asks, putting his hands on his hips like all men of his (very low) caliber do. Tryst stands slowly and looks at the manager, Greg, like he thinks he’s about to be murdered.

“I’m… closing my station,” Tryst states the obvious.

“Why?” Greg asks. “You’re closing tonight. Did you not check the teamsheet?”

Tryst had not, in fact, checked the teamsheet.

“Wait, but— no, I asked for this day off months ago,” Tryst says. “You told me I could leave early.”

Greg shrugs. “Well that’s not what we have you written down for. Put your station back up. You’re closing.” He walks away.

Tryst is too distraught to yell and fight like he usually would, and that’s when you know that something is wrong, far beyond him just being upset. He genuinely looks like he’s about to start crying.

“Fuck!” He shouts once Greg is gone, punching a bag of whole coffee beans off of the counter. Thankfully there are no customers around. He sits down on the floor, hands over his face.

“It’s my daughter’s first fuckin’ birthday,” he mumbles. You didn’t even know he had a daughter. “And I’m stuck here fucking closing this place.”