Chapter Text
It is warm, inviting, and the better part of society cannot get enough of it. Its heady scent can be one of the basest yet absolutely divine needs where people cannot get enough of it once they have a taste.
At the moment unfortunately, such sentiments do not extend to Mel and her situation. Pulling that card with kind eyes and a smile was enough to sweet talk the manager into giving her this part time job, but the hours and days on end of being unable to escape the yeasty bread smell infiltrating her lungs tugged at her in the most offensive of ways.
At least she has a job, she reminds herself.
At least this place was able to discount her rent in exchange for her part time work. Even more was the manager okay with Mel housing her pet cat, Sir Mittens, a stray she found in the previous fall semester.
At least she has a scholarship for her university studies and taking out a daunting amount of money in student loans was an avoidable situation, despite the circumstances.
But by the gods, is the throbbing behind her right eye horrid.
Whether the headache striking inside Mel's brain at her temple is her reaching her demise in hitting her limit on huffing bread or the lingering handover is anyone's best guess.
The queasiness churning in her gut, however, is undoubtedly thanks to the extra shot she took last night.
Normally she is not one for hangovers, considering herself immune to the affliction. Something in that citrus splash apparently held a strength beyond her knowledge.
Silently, she curses Elora, hating her, but loving her friend all the same. After all, a birthday only comes around once a year. Who was she to turn down going all out with someone she holds too close to call a best friend. For all intents and purposes, Elora is a sister to Mel in all but blood.
Mel swiftly moves down the resident-only accessible staircase and steadies herself holding onto the push handle for the door.
Morning shift on a weekend after a celebration felt too cruel a fate set upon her. The clock reads 7:00AM on the dot. Present Mel scolds past Mel for accepting a full shift the day after going out.
She'll survive, regardless.
She always does.
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Whoever ran closing shift the night before, Mel wishes to have a few words with them. Weekends have a certain reputation to be a wild card in how people would behave. And at this point, the ratio of her good to bad returns for the following day is abhorrent. This is the last thing she needed right now.
Cognizant to hold her tongue, Mel takes their broom and accompanying shovel housed in one of the off corners, sweeping up the residual crumbs and messes first for her crewmate Thieram, or Jack as a few tended to call him, to follow quickly behind with the mop.
All the while their manager Pauline, an amiable yet firm yordle who's lived ten of Mel's lifetimes dolled up with makeup and perfume that won't quit, is not too quietly shaking her head and harping on them the importance of cleanliness and orderliness.
It is not only about keeping up appearances, but also making sure each customer has a pleasant experience.
Meanwhile Mel and Thieram share a look saying all that couldn't in front of the one who signed their biweekly paychecks and lent Mel a place to stay near campus without dishing out city living type of rent.
Messes on the floor dealt with, counters wiped, tubs and bins of ingredients stocked in the front. Mel checks over her features in the employee restroom, freshens up her bun, letting a few locs loop behind her ear to a length just low enough to push what was permitted without a direct scolding.
Well enough.
Once finished checking over her appearance, there is a quick pit stop to the break room digging into her small brown leather purse for two aspirin and a shot of water from the water cooler.
Only a few minutes left until opening. Mel subtly quickens her pace to her station, retrieving one of the nearby rags to wipe down the crumbs and sauce spatter that have yet to show up on the assembly counter.
There is already a handful of people congregated by the door.
Being so close to the college campus in the city, Mel understands it conceptually, but in actuality…
Her train of thought stops then and there.
The jingling of keys decorating Pauline's hip chorus her tiny steps in making her way to the door.
The time is 7:59AM
"Ready, sweethearts?"
Mel manages a barely there smile. It was going to be a long day.
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Mel checks the clock hung high on the far side of the restaurant, past the couple of rows of tables and booths filling the dining space.
Bold blinking red lights painfully flash to the back of Mel's eye, imprinting a dreadful shape.
She fights the tempting flutter of an eye roll, choosing to spare a glance down, turning the inside of her wrist out slightly. The answer makes fine brows pinch in disapproval. Part of her wants to believe it is a joke, that the clock hanging on the wall has batteries that died an hour or two ago.
But no, such is not her luck and sure enough both clocks are matching. 9:47AM.
The day has done a splendid job in dragging out the minutes. A cruel joke thrust upon her and she is not in the mood to laugh.
Aside from the initial morning rush of college kids and a few university faculty stopping in for a breakfast sandwich and coffee combination, the phone line has also been open to catering services.
A victim of proximity and availability, Mel picks up the receiver to hear all about a kid's birthday party. Why someone would subject their children to SubStreet sandwiches is beyond her, certainly above her pay grade, but orders are orders and she is left to take the reins in jotting the order down and making sure their shop has a sufficient inventory of proteins, vegetables, sides, and… particulars.
Don't forget that one tuna sandwich cannot have tomatoes near it or Tommy with absolutely refuse to eat it— whomever's child they belong to. And oh, you don't do cookie cakes? How disappointing, what kind of establishment doesn't even think of having those on the menu? And oh bother, however many cookies that will suffice, I will take. Do you think each child should get one cookie or two? actually, never mind, you know what they say after all, better safe than sorry! And… and—
Through the menial one-sided conversations and incessant chatter, Mel is able to gather the frays of her withered patience for the woman on the line and scour through the ramblings for the necessary information that would allow her to actually get her job done.
Mel is prematurely claiming mentally she will be too busy and Thieram will be available to take the next call. She passes him the order receipt so he knows what to expect. The customer isn't coming in until the day after, so she has sufficient time to plan out logistics.
Aspirin does wonders, but it is not an all granting elixir or benevolent deity.
Coming down from the phone's party order, Mel never felt a greater sense of ease to be able to tend to a customer in the store.
Even better is it being one of their most pleasant regulars: an older burly gentleman in his mid 40s or 50s she'd estimate with hair originally chestnut brown now painted with streaks of grey at his temples and withered crows feet speaking to not only his age but living a live of well-earned joy.
For his husband who's reluctantly admitted to liking the indulgence every now and then, especially when work days are foreseen to run long and trying— midterm season is soon approaching and the professors are not spared from the stress— a simple sweet 'n' spicy glazed chicken sub sandwich on a wheat roll with spicy mustard.
And for himself one that's moderately basic sandwich albeit loaded with most of their deli meats except chicken, lettuce, tomato, onion, pepper, mayonnaise and regular yellow mustard.
Like a doting father, the man has always been kind to Mel, making light conversation down the assembly line and at checkout inquiring about her work and school life outside it. Respectable in wishing for her success in the future and to not work too much or be too hard on herself.
Also quite the generous tipper. Tipping in and of itself in this culture was a rarity, even in a relatively low-class establishment such as SubStreet and rarer as one so kind being more than loose change.
Mel could only smile, give him her thanks, and wish him and his family a lovely day. Every now and again, perhaps her fingers would dance of their own accord, When he'd check the bag at home, perhaps there would be an extra white chocolate raspberry cookie. They are objectively one of the better cookies they offered in their rotation.
As quickly as the morning rush comes, it goes. Mel is quietly grateful for the stillness. Usually when the rush helps make the time go by quickly, she appreciates it greatly. However, the residual soreness dancing at the club last night is screaming at her feet and lower back. A few stretches with a water break brings her back to life.
Thieram lingers in the break room, too, already buried in his phone. He isn't much of a conversationalist, never really has been with her. Mel takes to answering a few texts and checking for any emails from professors or classmates.
Before clicking off the screen, Mel remembers to check the time, hoping for any progression in her shift. She could accept 11:30 at least— the chair underneath her screeches and she pokes at Thieram's attention it was time to head back to the front: they shouldn't depart from their station for too long.
Lunch rush is a bit of a misnomer, especially on the weekends. Comparatively speaking to the rest of the week, the time moves lazily. A minute amplification of their regular workflow for a fair bit.
Mel's attention is drawn to watching the door curiously.
One of their other regulars usually comes in around this time. It should be any minute now. For the better part of this semester, or at least as long as Mel has noticed, they would stop by. Either by themselves or with a classmate or two, using the time, as far as Mel could see, to congregate over several dense textbooks with titles down the spine Mel didn't particularly use in her everyday life or jargon, notebooks, and sandwiches.
Ah, there he is.
Mel nudges Thieram with a press of her hands to his back, not so quietly encouraging a switch of positions from manning the register for her to take over assembly. His eyes read stuttered confusion that doesn't reach Mel's with her attention fixated on the tinny chime of the bell.
Seems as if it's only him who has decided to pay a visit today.
It's that time in the semester where the weather cannot seem to make it's mind up to be either warm or chilly with a strong breeze. So one wears fitted jeans with a polo and a bomber jacket that can be easily donned or doffed, in accordance to the skies' behavior.
Like how a dog's head nods smelling the air, he scopes the dining space, undoubtedly checking if the table he usually haunts is free. He's pleased and picks up his pace to drop off his backpack with a dense thud.
The way he makes carrying the weight look effortless is beyond Mel. Before further thoughts start to wander in ways unbecoming, he is already before her, bearing a bright smile. The gap between his top two teeth is just enough to be adorable and Mel's eyes float from his mouth to his own gaze.
"Hello, Mel," he says politely.
"Hi, Jayce," she says back. A regular in the restaurant with an unforgettable grin, she had to have known his name by now. He deserved as much.
"Let me guess…" Her pause is a tease. "Ham and turkey sandwich on white roll toasted with orange cheese, lettuce, tomato, no onion, mayonnaise and mustard. "
Jayce looks claims him being affronted, but Mel sees through it. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, now hold up. I could order something different!"
Mel's expression reads disbelieving. More of less he has ordered the same thing for almost as long as she can recall. "Is that so?" she challenges, leaning slightly forward over the counter.
Jayce's face pinches at her before turning his eyes to the menu hung up high behind her. He hums a randomized beat for a few seconds. "I will also take a medium size cup of chicken and corn soup. hah!" He sneers. "So there."
"Hardly, but close enough. You are a creature of habit. Nothing wrong with that."
"Perhaps, but I call it being efficient. Aligns with the engineering mentality after all."
A hum lingers in Mel's throat. She grabs a bread roll from the rack and starts slicing it to put in the toaster. There's merit in as much. There were only so many combinations that could work before bordering on questionable or blatantly offensive to the senses. She has had her more than her fair share of stories.
It takes about a minute for the bread to finish toasting. Out of sight, Mel plays with her fingers in the interim.
Jayce watches her with a smile.
"It's only you today," she observes.
"Yeah, usually my friends Sky and Vik are with me, if you're familiar with them. Unfortunately he's feeling a bit overfatigued and she's helping him out, keeping company and all."
"That's kind of her." She remembers those two well enough. They seem to be great company with Jayce. Even from her point of view seeing their friend circle come in every now and again, Mel could tell there is something a little more than friendliness between those two, specifically. She thought it was sweet.
"In any case, I actually have quite a bit of studying I still need to catch up on for midterms, so…"
"…So here you are," she finishes for him.
Still holding an ear to his attention, Mel turns on her heel to retrieve the warmed bread.
"So here I am," he parrots back.
"That sounds tough," she laments. "I have exams myself later next week, and will be suffering as much."
"I wish us both the best." He flashes another stupidly charming smile.
Mel's wearing her latex-free gloves and desperately wishing she could push her hair back, fiddle with her locs. Settling on using her wrist is less than graceful.
Down the assembly line she moves swiftly, but still with care. First the meats in a delicate shingled pattern. Followed by cheese, then—
"I don't think I've ever told you but you layer it all really well."
With a pinch of most assuredly overly wilted shredded lettuce in her hands hovering a few centimeters above the sub sandwich, Mel pauses, challenging the notion with a raised brow. "Really?"
"Of course. You are quite artistic in your selection and structure down the middle. I mean whenever I'm here and you're not, its tends to be a wild card. Haphazard assortment of fillings, if you will."
Mel purses her lips to the side and lets the lettuce sprinkle down. Gratefully for Mel the warmth in her cheeks is dampened by her makeup. "Hmph, flatterer."
"You bring people on an artistic journey."
"And waxing poetic?" she places the finished sandwich on the wrapping paper, takes the nearby bread knife to halve it with swift precision, then begins to roll it steady. "I thought you were supposed to be an engineer."
The sandwich with the soup totaled to 14.75. "Good luck with your studies, Jayce." The wave of her fingers is polite.
He passes off the appropriate number of notes to Thieram before reciprocating. "And to you as well." He drops a kind tip in the jar before heading to his claimed table.
A careful hand to Mel's side, makes her startle and knee buckle.
To her opposite side is Pauline. "You two doing okay?"
Mel steels herself and sheds the used gloves for a fresh pair. "Perfectly fine."