"Oops!"

It’s well past midnight. I’m sprawled out on the floor, lying on my stomach with my beat-up laptop in front of me, forcing myself to read yet another depressing email about yet another relationship gone south. Or “almost” gone south, since the girl who wrote to me made a point of repeating several times that they are still together.

I let out a heavy sigh.

I wish I hadn’t read so many identical stories; I wish I didn’t know that her relationship is basically dead in the water, even if she hasn’t realized it yet. Every time, I have to remind myself that when you’re the one inside the relationship, it isn’t always obvious that things aren’t as great as you think.

And I know that all too well. I’ve been there myself.

I’m bursting for a pee and I really should get up and run to the bathroom, but the way I’m lying has practically locked my back. I try to move slowly, and the pain is so sharp that for a split second, I actually consider just letting it go right here.

For some reason, that old news story pops into my head—the one about the celebrity found dead in their bathroom in a pool of their own vomit. So, I haul myself up, groaning and grunting, swaying from side to side.

I wonder what the neighbors must think, hearing me.

But then I remember that my life is far too dull and solitary for anyone to think I’ve got company for some “party for two.” At most, they’d think I’m some creep getting my kicks from adult films. How pathetic!

Still, better than the reality, I guess. Who would want it known that I comfort myself by reading about other people’s dysfunctional, depressing relationships? That I created an online column specifically for this, under the guise of wanting to help people?

At first, it was honestly just a way to feel less like crap after breaking up with my long-term boyfriend. But then, an online magazine contacted me about a guest spot on their site... and so it became a bit of a part-time gig. Something to help me top up my paycheck and occasionally head out to a bar with a friend.

My job at the minimarket—and when I say “mini,” I mean microscopic—is convenient, even if the pay isn’t great. It’s just a block away from my place, and usually, except for a few rare cases, I only work the morning shift.

Lost in thought, I manage to peel myself off the cold floor and dash to the bathroom, but not before grabbing my phone.

I make it just in time; any longer and I really would have wet myself.

I strip off my underwear and relax.

While sitting on my white ceramic throne, I listlessly scroll through my feed for something to keep me entertained. I waste time watching funny videos and tutorials of people building miniature houses out of cardboard and wood glue.

I save a few, promising myself I’ll try making one, even though I know I never will. The screenshots of all the projects saved in my gallery are living proof of my high ambitions and total lack of follow-through. But what if I wake up tomorrow feeling like a DIY guru? At least I’d know where to channel all that creativity.

Damn algorithm! But who am I kidding?

I shift on the seat and my legs start to tingle. How long have I been sitting here? Clearly long enough to lose all feeling in my butt and legs.

I wipe with the last two squares of paper left on the cardboard roll and stand up. With every movement, I feel pins and needles shooting up from my heels. One step, stop. Another step, stop again... I reach the sink. I wash my hands, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

“You need to set some boundaries, Hazel...” I tell myself. But as the words leave my mouth, my reflection just stares back with a skeptical look.

“I know, I know... I’ve never been good at taking my own advice.” I stop for a second to stare at my reflection again and shake my head, letting out a dry laugh. “Great... talking to myself again. Time for bed. Message received,” I keep muttering like a crazy person.

I drag myself into the bedroom and collapse. I hit the spring mattress with a thud. I don’t even bother with pajamas. Suddenly, exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks, and I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

A blinding light hits my eyes. I groan, barely managing to shield my face with my hand, but I can’t open them. “What the hell...?”

The light doesn’t go away. I squint one eye to figure out where it’s coming from and realize it’s streaming straight through the window. How is that possible? I rub my eyes, bewildered.

“It’s morning already,” I whisper, my voice so raspy I barely recognize it.

I reach toward the nightstand, fumbling to grab my phone and kill the alarm before it starts blaring. Eyes strictly shut, I feel my way around blindly.

Finally, I find it. I rub my eyes again, trying to clear that blurry fog, and focus.

“Oh my God! No way!!!” I scream, bolting upright. How is it possible that it’s already 8:15 AM? I scramble to the bathroom, pee, and slap on some deodorant. No time for a shower, even though I desperately need one—the thought of Mike chewing me out for yet another late arrival is enough of a deterrent.

I quickly swap my T-shirt, keep on yesterday’s pants, and go on a hunt for my keys. I whimper a bit, just to vent the frustration, and the second I find what I need, I grab my bag and phone and bolt. On my way out, I slam the front door harder than I intended, as if I were trying to take the whole frame with me.

Elevator’s busy. “Of course it is!”

I sprint down the stairs. Five flights—a lot, and usually something I’d gladly skip—but Mike’s voice in my head is getting louder and more aggressive. So, I focus on the finish line and keep running.

By the time I step out of my apartment building, it’s already 8:45. My shift starts at nine and I have a whole block to cover to get to the minimarket.

The streets are already packed, but I don’t let the crowd slow me down.

When I reach the shop, I’m only five minutes late. I duck inside without looking around—I can practically feel Mike’s death stare burning into me—and head straight for the back to throw on my “Mike’s Mart” vest.

When I get back to the register—my post—I find Mike sitting there doing my job. He glares at me with a look that promises a lecture worthy of an Oscar, while I just stand there waiting for him to finish ringing up a customer so I can take over.

“I didn’t think you were working today,” Mrs. Burton says. Did she really have to say that? I wonder.

Mike keeps staring, then says, “Alarm didn’t go off?”

I knew it! He couldn’t wait to take that dig at me. “Something came up. It happens to everyone,” I snap back.

He keeps staring, and I hold his gaze. I have no intention of losing this staring contest.

“Don’t look at her like that, Mike. She said something came up,” Mrs. Burton interjects, but Mike doesn’t look away.

“You heard the lady. Stop looking at me like that...” I repeat, trying to suppress a laugh.

He shakes his head and finally looks away. Yes! Score one for me.

Mike finishes scanning the items, Mrs. Burton pays and leaves.

I take my spot at the register to help the next customer, and as Mike brushes past me, I swear I hear a sound like a growl. I look at him, arching an eyebrow.

“Really, Mike? You’re even growling now?" I mutter under my breath.

He leans in slightly. “Stop wasting time and get to work.” As he says it, I hear another growl. What is he, an animal? This is insane. I huff, sit on my stool, and start scanning items. “Morning, Robin. How’s your grandma?”

“She’s much better, thanks.” He smiles at me.

I’ve worked at the minimarket for three years now and I know all the regulars by name. I could recite every single detail of their lives from memory.

I get along with everyone, but Mike is the only one who gives me a hard time. He really knows how to push me to the limit! He’s not a bad guy. He just has... a shitty personality, that’s all.

The first few hours of the morning drag by. I take advantage of a quiet spell in the shop to take a ten-minute break and grab a bite, since I didn’t even have breakfast.

Mike notices the second I get off my stool and approaches me with that perpetually annoyed look of his.

“On break already?” he asks.

“Look, Mike. I’m not in the mood to argue. I haven’t had breakfast or my caffeine fix yet. So, I feel it’s my duty to warn you: if you keep up with that aggressive look, things are going to get ugly,” I tell him flat out.

“You were late. You’ll have to make up the time you owe me, or I’m docking your pay this time,” he says, growling again.

“Are you serious?” I ask, stunned.

He doesn’t say a word, but that “I’ve got the upper hand” expression and that smug little smirk say he’s dead serious.

“I was only five minutes late!” I point out, huffing.

“I know. I can read a clock. I can read a calendar, too, and this isn’t the first time you’ve been late this week. Heck, what am I saying? It’s a habit for you. From now on, you’re making up every single minute,” he says, grabbing a protein bar from the shelf next to the register and tossing it to me.

“But—” I try to argue.

“Eat and get back to work. You’re helping me with inventory this weekend,” he finishes, cutting me off.

“You’re a dictator!” I hiss at him, keeping my voice down so the customers don’t hear me.

He lets out a throaty laugh and walks away, satisfied. I shake my head in a mix of resignation and disbelief. “Caveman...” I whisper to myself. I don’t want him to hear me; I don’t want to feed his ego.

I rip open the snack and bite into it with a bit too much aggression to vent my frustration.

He picked a good one, I think.

As I eat, forcing a look of dissatisfaction on my face—God forbid I give him the impression that I actually like something he chose—I watch him get back to work. He starts taking items out of the boxes and stocking the shelves in the toiletries aisle.

Seeing him like that, busy with something that isn’t getting on my nerves and from a safe distance, he could almost pass for a normal, maybe even nice, guy.

I realize what I just thought and shudder. I shrug and shake my head with an involuntary grimace, like when you bite into a lemon: lips and nose bunching up in an uncontrollable reflex, eyes squeezing into slits, and a quick shiver running down my spine.

“Everything okay?” someone suddenly asks from right behind me.

I don’t recognize the voice and spin around. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask blankly, looking at the woman now standing in front of me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her around town, yet she looks vaguely familiar. She points to the bar. “Is it that bad?” she asks.

“Oh, no... No, the bar is great. It’s just... I bit my cheek,” I lie. I make it sound so convincing I almost believe it myself. I’m wasted in this place. I should be on Broadway!

“Ugh, I hate it when that happens!” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Don’t you find that once you do it the first time, you just keep biting it over and over? It’s so annoying.”

I have no idea who she is, but I like her already. I give her an instinctive smile and nod.

“I haven’t seen you around. Did you just move here or something?” I ask, getting straight to the point. I know practically everyone here, even if it’s just by sight, but she feels like a “locked character” in a video game.

“Just visiting. Family business,” she replies curtly, rolling her eyes. Yep, definitely like her.

“Tell me about it. I moved here specifically to keep my distance from my relatives!” I let out a laugh. She joins in, politely covering her mouth with her hand.

Classy, I note silently. She has an elegance I definitely lack.

Before I can ask whose relative she is, a familiar, deep, raspy voice behind me speaks up: “What are you doing here?” It’s Mike.

I look at them in surprise, and before I can stop myself, I burst out laughing. “No way!” I say, tears practically welling up in my eyes. “There is no way on earth you’re related to someone this kind and elegant!” I can’t stop laughing.

The woman laughs with me, though with much more restraint.

“She seems to know you well. I like her,” she says, pointing at me.

Mike makes that growling sound again. “Get back to work. There’s a line at the register,” he barks. Then he turns back to the woman—his relative, apparently—and gestures for her to follow him.

I try to swallow my laughter, but it keeps coming out in hiccups. I stuff the last bite of the snack into my mouth, crumble up the foil wrapper, and tuck it right into Mike’s shirt pocket. I give the pocket a little pat. “Back to the register, boss!” I tease him, mouth full. Then I turn to her, covering my mouth to spare her the disgusting sight of the half-chewed bar, and say: “It was a pleasure meeting you. Good luuuuck!” I snicker, nodding toward a fuming Mike. She gives me a knowing little laugh. “Pleasure was all mine. Have a good shift.”

I leave them and hurry toward the register before Mike can stop me and fire me on the spot.

I focus on my work, chatting with customers, and for a while, I forget that Mike and the “visiting relative” have basically vanished.

He invited her into his office, and they haven’t come out since. It’s the first time I’ve ever met anyone from his family. Honestly, I thought he was an orphan or something.

Maybe she’s not actually a relative—wouldn’t be the first time a couple happened to look alike.

In the four years I’ve been running my “Love (and Other Disasters)” column, I’ve read it all. It wouldn’t surprise me if she were actually a “friend” playing the “relative” card just for a bit of roleplay.

Then again, I don’t see how such an elegant woman could let a fifty-year-old caveman touch her... but like I said, I’ve read it all.

I finish checking out Mr. Coleman and, since he’s the last one in line, I help him bag his groceries. While I’m busy with the old man, Brenda walks in—the other employee I swap shifts with—and I instinctively glance at the wall clock. My shift ended ten minutes ago.

“Sorry I’m late, Hazel,” she says immediately, dropping her bag on the floor behind the counter.

The truth is, I hadn’t even noticed the time.

“Where’s King Kong?” she asks right after, looking around. I motion for her to wait until Mr. Coleman leaves, and she takes the chance to throw on that hideous vest.

Once we’re alone, I dive straight into the gossip. Brenda was one of the first friends I made when I moved to Stonebrook, and she’s the one who helped me get this job.

I lean in, acting like a detective on a mission—or a busybody, which is basically the same thing—and whisper: “Mike’s been locked in his office for a couple of hours with this very elegant woman.” I give her a suggestive wink, and her eyes go wide as she covers her mouth. Her shocked expression is exactly what I was hoping for, but then I fill her in on the whole story, keeping an eye out as I talk.

“Mike has relatives?” she asks, stunned.

“My thoughts exactly!” I tell her. “If it were Mike, I’d be less surprised to find out he had them once but killed them all.” She laughs.

“And you threw your trash in his pocket like he’s a walking garbage can? You’re crazy. You’re going to get yourself fired.” I nod, and she keeps laughing. “The upside is he’ll never know I was ten minutes late,” she adds.

“And since he hasn’t appeared behind me yet, I’m going to make a run for it. I don’t want him seeing me and remembering the pocket incident,” I say with a tight-lipped grin. She waves me off, and I dash to the back to grab my bag.

A moment later, I resurface and sneak toward the register to say goodbye, but the sound of the office door about to open makes me skip the pleasantries and bolt out of the shop.

“I’ll call you tonight!” I yell and disappear.

Crisis averted.