Little Secrets. Anna Snoekstra

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       4

      Rose heaved the keg onto its side. It was heavy, pulling on the sockets of her arms and tightening the ligaments in her neck. She let it fall the last few centimeters, for no other reason than to enjoy the violent thud as it hit the cement floor. The windowless storage room at the rear of the tavern smelled like damp. Squeezed into the small space were the beer kegs, a large freezer full of frozen meat and fries, and a few boxes full of dusty beer glasses.

      Bending over, butt high in the air, she pushed the keg around the tight corner into the back corridor with little baby steps. She looked ridiculous. If Frank could see her now maybe he would stop looking at her like she was hot shit. Or maybe he’d get off on it. The thought of that made her straighten up. She hated having men’s eyes on her. It made her feel as though she didn’t own her own body. As if by staring her up and down they were possessing her flesh. If it weren’t so damn humid she’d wear long pants and turtlenecks and never, ever shave her legs.

      She was starting to get blisters. Every step she took her heels grated down against the rough fabric of her shoes, slicing through another layer of skin. She was starting to wince as she gently kicked the keg down the corridor. She passed the stain on the carpet from where Mark Jones had puked up his beer and the crack in the wall that seemed to be getting slightly bigger every day. She tried to remind herself that sometimes she didn’t totally hate this job. Quiet nights goofing around with Mia could be fun. But right now she wanted to pull her hair out. Every night, for years and years, the same bloody thing, one shift identical to another. The only difference was the aging of the patrons.

      The numbness she’d felt earlier had worn off now. Her stomach was crumpling inward with shame and disappointment at the email from the Sage Review. She hadn’t told Mia yet; she couldn’t. If she did, then it would be real. Mia would ask her what she was going to do, where she was going to live, and she didn’t have the answers. Instead, she kept her body moving and tried to breathe. Rose had written about everything she could think of. She’d written about the financial crisis and its effects on her town; she’d written about the search for the arsonist who had killed poor Ben Riley and burned down the courthouse. She’d written film reviews, celebrity gossip and, worst of all, attempted an awkward video series on YouTube.

      Regardless of the topic, the rejections were always the same. “Thank you for submitting...” they would begin, and already she knew the rest. Everyone always said the only person who stood in your way to success was yourself. She knew that; she really did. Rose just needed one good story, something truly unique. If she just had a great story, they couldn’t say no.

      This cadetship had been made for her; she’d fit the requirements exactly. It had been so perfect, so exactly right.

      The corner of the keg whacked against the wall, causing a framed picture to fall to the floor.

      “Fuck.” She hadn’t been paying enough attention. She couldn’t cope with this. There was now a large crack in the glass across the photograph of the Eamon family: the husband with his war medals, the wife with her strained smile, the little curly-haired girl with her curly-haired doll and the boy with his frilly shirt. Rose hung it back on the wall.

      The feeling in her stomach was turning to pain, and she was struggling to swallow it away. It was like acid reflux, spilling out from her gut in a poisonous torrent and into her throat.

      She put her head into the kitchen. “All right if I take my break now?”

      “Sure,” the manager, Jean, said, not turning around as she chopped a mound of pale tomatoes.

      Sometimes she took her break up at the bar, attempting to eat something Jean had made and continuing to chat with Mia and whoever else was sitting there. But if she was going to get through today she needed to have a few minutes to herself. She grabbed the first-aid kit off the shelf and went back into the corridor. She pushed open one of the motel room doors and sat on the end of the bed. Carefully she slid one of her shoes off and examined her heel. The skin was bright red. A blister was forming, a soft white pillow puffing up to protect her damaged skin. Carefully, she traced her finger over it, shuddering as she touched the delicate new skin.

      Unclipping the first-aid kit, she rummaged through the out-of-date antiseptic and the bandages still in their wrapping until she found the box of Band-Aids in the bottom. She pulled one out and stuck it on her skin, stretched it over her blister and then fastened the other side down. The process of putting on the Band-Aid reminded her of being a little kid. Of being looked after, of knowing there was someone there to make everything okay. Her throat constricted and she couldn’t hold it in. Holding a hand over her face to muffle the sound, she began to cry. Horrible, aching sobs rose from inside her.

      Clenching her eyes closed, she tried to force herself to stop, but she couldn’t. She was so tired, too tired. Her eyes turned hot, tears overfilling them and burning down her cheeks. Crying was easier than not crying.

      She stood, looking up to pull the door closed so there would be no chance they would hear her at the bar. Through her watery vision she saw someone. A man, standing in the hallway, staring at her. She tried to reset her face, wiping her cheeks with her hands.

      “I’m sorry,” he said and, weirdly, he looked like he might cry СКАЧАТЬ