The Daily Drip hit me like a caffeine IV—espresso machine hissing like an angry serpent, the air thick with roasted beans and the faint undercurrent of burnt milk.
7:02 a.m., and the morning rush was a tidal wave: suits barking orders, college kids nursing hangovers with lattes, the occasional vagrant nursing nothing but the warmth.
"Elara! Table six, now!" Marco, my boss, bellowed from behind the counter.
Mid-forties, slicked-back hair going gray at the temples, with a smile that lingered on my chest like an oil stain.
He'd hired me six months ago, "because you light up the place," he'd said, eyes dipping low.
Now, it was "accidental" brushes in the tight galley kitchen, his hand on my lower back guiding me past the flour sacks.
Professional, I told myself. Tips pay the rent.
I nodded, apron strings biting into my waist as I balanced a tray: Two americanos, a chai for the yoga mom who always undressed me with her envy-glazed stare.
Table six: Theo, right on cue, his laptop open to some code that looked like hieroglyphs.
Twenty-six, lanky with wire-rimmed glasses and a dimple that deployed like a weapon.
"Morning, El," he said, voice soft as fog. "You look... radiant. Rough night?"
"Rough everything," I quipped, setting down the cups.
He was the good kind of regular—tipped 30%, asked about my writing without pushing.
But lately, his questions edged deeper: Who's walking you home? That poem you read last week—about cages? Rings true.
Flirtation or fixation? Hard to tell in a city where every smile hid teeth.
As I turned, Lila sidled up, her pixie cut dyed electric blue this week, arms crossed under breasts she swore were "real but blessed by filters."
Best friend since community college, but envy was her shadow—always borrowing my clothes, then sniping about how they "fit me better anyway."
"Theo's got it bad," she whispered, hip-checking me. "You gonna put him out of his misery, or string him along like Ramirez?"
"Neither. Work, Lil."
But her laugh was barbed.
Yesterday, she'd "jokingly" told Marco I was "distracted" after he caught me doodling verses on a napkin.
Tips dipped that shift.
The door chimed—fresh meat: A cluster of office drones, one with a man-bun who catcalled as I passed.
"Hey, red, extra cream in that?"
Whistles followed, the kind that made my skin crawl like invisible fingers.
Marco chuckled from afar; Lila rolled her eyes but didn't back me.
I flashed a plastic smile, poured their order with hands steady from practice.
Breathe, Elara. It's just noise.
Mid-morning lull brought the news radio crackling: "...Task force update on The Wire. Governor's allocating $2 mil for victim support, but critics say it's PR fluff. No arrests, no leads—just another woman in Mercy General, wired to a chair for hours, forced to relive her worst betrayals via hacked voicemails."
Static, then a call-in: My daughter's scared to date. Government's asleep at the wheel!
Marco muted it. "Ignore the fear porn. City's always got a boogeyman."
Easy for him to say—his apartment was in gated Willow Heights, not my roach motel.
Lunch rush peaked with a fight: Two baristas from the vegan spot next door, arguing over a spilled smoothie.
One grabbed the other's wrist—hard enough to bruise.
I intervened, voice calm: "Hey, breathe. It's just juice."
They backed off, but the aggressor's glare lingered on me, promising payback.
Great. Another fan.
By close, my feet throbbed, notebook heavier with scribbles: Steam rises, hides the spite beneath.
Theo walked me to the bus—insisted, eyes earnest. "Text me when you're home?"
I nodded, guilt twisting. Nice guys like him deserved better than my half-hearted maybes.
Home meant takeout lo mein and a call from Mom.
"Elara? You okay? That Wire story... your father's installing cameras."
Her voice wobbled, pills slurring the edges.
Dad's gruff interjection: "Tell her to quit that dive. Real job, real security."
As if security was a paycheck, not the lie we all chased.
I hung up, curling into bed with the window cracked to the city's hum.
Sirens wailed—another trace? Or just Eldridge pretending to care?
In the dark, I wondered: What if the wire's already in me?