Shadow Boxer

A study in damaged merchandise

QuickMart, day-old bakery rack, picked over but not empty.

A cupcake catches me by surprise. Chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles. Fun. Happy. The kind a kid would pick.

Ninety-nine cents marked down from $3.49.

Math I can get behind.

I open the flimsy display case and select my prize. Turn to see the clerk behind bulletproof glass scribbling in his notebook.

He shoves it beneath the counter as I approach like he’s hiding a pilfered Playboy.

"Taking notes?" I smile, setting the cupcake on the counter.

He looks up, surprised I've spoken. He’s late twenties. Maybe 30. Fit. Ponytail. Not ugly.

"Taking notes," he says, like he’s testing the idea. He scans the cupcake. “I write a little,” he offers.

I count out exact change. Three quarters, two dimes, four pennies. I slide the coins through the slot.

I study him as he distributes the coins across the till. His hands move sure, steady, deliberate. Like someone blessing what little I have to give.

Our eyes meet for half a second through the glass.

"Thanks," I mumble, already halfway to the door.

The Half-Life of Everything

Back in my apartment, I find a candle at the bottom of the kitchen drawer. A book of matches from Mickey's Bar, a place I haven't been to in exactly nine years, eleven months, and sixteen days. But who's counting.

5.27 years. That's the half-life of Cobalt-60, the radioactive isotope used to destroy tumors. Every 5.27 years, exactly half the atoms decay - no negotiation, no shortcuts, no way to speed it up or slow it down.

The taste of barium sulfate, metallic and thick on my tongue. My ears ringing with the technologist's voice through the intercom: "Hold your breath. Don't move."

Lying still while machines hummed around me, mapping the geography of what was eating me alive.

Principles of Radiologic Technology sits in my stack beside my mattress on the floor.

Forty-seven dollars at the used bookstore, money scraped together selling plasma twice a week. My arm purple with needle marks that had nothing to do with medical procedures.

What Doesn't Kill You

The little pink candle is bent. Buried under takeout menus and expired coupons. I straighten it, expose the wick with my fingernail, and push it into the frosting.

Mickey’s matches are limp, weak, practically worthless, like he was.

Third match catches. A tiny flame sputters to life.

Ten years ago, I had a sister who answered when I called. A mother who still believed in second chances. A fiancé who thought love could cure anything.

Ten years ago, I had plans that stretched beyond next week's rent

The flame flickers against my tower of good intentions. Shadows dance across walls stripped bare, save the faint outlines of portraits once there.

An apartment clean as my blood.

Night Shift Mathematics

Third time this week I've been to QuickMart. Not for the cupcakes.

The clerk—I've started thinking of his name as David, though I haven't asked—looks up when the door chime announces me.

His notebook's open tonight. I catch fragments of handwriting, careful cursive that leans left.

"You again," he says. Not unkind.

I grab a Diet Coke from the cooler, take my time walking to the counter. His pen has a chewed cap. There's a small scar through his left eyebrow that makes him look like he's always asking a question.

"What do you write?" I ask, sliding two bills through the slot.

He considers this, fingers drumming against the counter. "Stories, mostly. About people who work nights."

"Like us?" I smile.

"Like us," he smiles.

He gives me change. Our fingers don't touch through the metal tray, but something passes between us anyway. Recognition, maybe. Two people awake when the rest of the world sleeps.

I crack open the Diet Coke. Stand there longer than I should, watching him write. His pen moves across the page like it’s leading him.

Station Seven

Twelve-hour shifts, four days a week, watching plastic bottles march down the conveyor belt like soldiers heading to war.

My job is simple: spot the rejects. Uneven seams, discoloration, anything that might break the illusion of perfection. Green light, red light. Keep or toss.

James, my supervisor, is twenty-three. Calls me "ma'am."

He thinks he's being cute. He’s not.

Give him time. The plant has a way of grinding people down.

But I've figured it out. Show up. Clock in. Do the work. Count bottles like rosary beads.

Twelve hours times four days times fifty-two weeks. The mathematics of a life rebuilt from scratch, one shift at a time.

The Collector

Fourth night in a row at QuickMart. David has coffee waiting when I walk in—black, no sugar, the way I take it now.

"On the house," he says, though I know it comes out of his pocket.

I don't argue. Small kindnesses are harder to accept than big gestures, but I'm learning.

His notebook's face-up tonight. I see my name—or what he thinks is my name—written in the margin. “Melissa, 2:15 AM, rainbow sprinkles.”

"You write about your customers?"

"Only the interesting ones."

I want to tell him I'm not interesting, just damaged in ways that sometimes look like mystery. Instead, I ask, "What's my story?"

He closes the notebook, leans back, narrows his eyes.

The bulletproof glass between us catches the fluorescent light, makes everything look underwater.

"Still figuring that out," he says.

The Wish

The candle burns down to a stub, wax pooling like a tiny lake in the chocolate frosting.

I close my eyes and make the same wish I make every night.

Not for the life I lost—the sister, the mother, the fiancé who thought love was stronger than chemistry. Not even for forgiveness from the people I hurt, though that would be nice.

I wish for tomorrow to look exactly like today. Same shift, same station, same routine that keeps me upright when everything else wants to pull me under.

I wish for David to still be there, at QuickMart, writing his stories.

I wish for my arms to stay clean, my test results to stay negative, my rent to get paid on time.

Small wishes. Clearance-price dreams.

The flame gutters and dies.

I sit in darkness, letting my eyes adjust. The textbooks. The shadows. The faint sound of someone else's laundry tumbling in endless cycles below my feet.

I lick the frosting from the candle stub.

Save the cupcake for tomorrow.

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