1 Deep Cleans

'If customers knew the horrors hidden in a walk-in, they would never eat out...' Rylee thought as she struggled to reach under the lowest shelf, the rag scrubbing for a dark stain she tried not to think about. She flicked aside a shriveled jalapeño and held her breathe as the stench of stale ketchup filled her nose. She had been working at the Burgee Bash for almost 5 months, but she would never get over the grime a deep clean could reveal. Stale food, crusted condiments. She was so tired of coming home smelling like onions, her shoes sticky with oil.

This was one of only two jobs she was currently holding. She worked more doubles than she cared to admit, and survived on a strong diet of energy drinks and power naps. You would think she would at least have something to show for it, but her mountain of credit card debt held her back from even buying something fun for herself, like the new N Swap console and Z of Legend game her friends had enjoyed for the past year. Here she was scrubbing dried veggies and sauce of a cold floor, only to satisfy the demands of paper deficits demanding her pennies. It was the consequences of her carelessness, though. Once upon a time she tried dreaming, and the fall into reality had stung painfully.

"Rylee, I need more buns on the fly!"

The sudden call made her jump and hit her head on the wire shelving. Rubbing the tender spot she quickly yelled, "Heard!" And rushed back to the line. As she ducked out of the large refrigerator, the warm air hit her and she realized just how cold she felt. The small sprint to the front followed by the heat of the fryers quickly warmed her back up.

As she scrubbed her hands then jumped on the grill, her mind drifted back to a time when she was more naive. "I just don't think I'm built for a 9-5 job," she remembered once saying, as she loaded her car with picture frames and printed canvas. She was a self-proclaimed 'free-spirit' who just wanted to be her own boss. Her boyfriend of the time, Blake, had leaned against the car door as she hefted a box into the trunk.

"It just seems like a lot of work..." he had watched her work for hours, detailing paintings and hand stitching little drawstring bags. She took her frown for concern and hugged him around the waist.

"But it's what I love doing. And I know it doesn't make much, but seeing someone enjoy a piece of art I made, it's the best feeling in the world." She explained.

To her, he was doing to REAL work. The paystubs were much more impressive than what she managed to gather in her little cash box. Yet it touched her that he let her try. Every time she packed the car, he let her chase the sunset. It was like he knew what it meant to her to follow something so elusive.

Yet, there were signs things weren't as perfect as they seemed. The empty sadness in his eyes, the way he never protested when she left; the way he never tried to go with her. She should have wondered how a couple spending so much time apart could stay so close together.

In the end, they were never that close at all.

"Order up!" She tosses a plate to the window and grabbed the next ticket, memories returning unbidden.

She could remember the dirt stains on his hands and the flecks of oil on his pants. The smell of cars lingered around him like the smell of fries now cling to her own clothes. He was a mechanic, and spent long hours in the grease pit, knuckles bloody trying to loosen stripped bolts, or back sweaty from being in the hot shop. He was the bread winner while she struggled to get her footing in the art world.

Back then, it was a dream come true. Having a boyfriend support you financially was a concept she read in many romance novels. He was like the CEO and the unknown love interest, who swooped in and saved the day. She thought he was the one for her, and though they were struggling, she wanted to prove she could make it. Sometimes, she blamed herself for causing what was to come.

"Can you get some more fries dropped? And check we have a backup of tomatoes," her boss reminded. She swooped on autopilot to do what was ordered, trying to clear her thoughts.

That was three years ago. Blake has proposed during the summer, on a trip to a little gambling town where they went to play the slots. Back then, he was happier. He was still the best friend she adored. They played video games together, stayed up late on the computers or watching movies. She did art while he worked, and then drove to shows to try and show she could make it as an artist. She made wedding plans and showed him save the date mock ups, but he didn't seem as excited as she was.

One thing led to another and he started growing distant. He would say things about himself, self-deprecating. He started feeling unhappy. He wanted to drink more. She kept working harder, painting or sewing. "I'm sorry, I'm trying. I'll get another commission," she tried to promise. She felt like she was chasing him, unable to stabilize their income gap. She stopped showing him wedding plans, worrying it was stressing him. Maybe he regretting purposing.

Maybe he regretted choosing her.

There was a reason they call them 'starving artists'. She just couldn't help on her income alone. She started charging bills onto cards, putting art supplies into new accounts. She told herself she could make it. But the shows brought less money, and she lost hope. In desperation, she applied for a job at a craft store. When she was hired, she proudly announced to him she could help with the bills better too. She didn't think of the dreams she put aside, only about doing her part. She took long hours, and came home, expecting him to be happy. Then one day, he was gone.

"I need some time to myself, Rylee," the words sounded empty. She watched as he packed a bag, and announced he would stay at his moms for a week. One week became two, then other items started disappearing. A pair of shoes, more clothes, then finally the dresser. They fought, and she remembered handing him the ring, tears in her eyes.

"You can give it back to me when you mean it," she declared. The comment was full of pain and confusion. She had hoped eventually he would sort things out and everything would be fine. After seven years of friendship, then dating, she couldn't imagine it being over.

He didn't come around for one week, then two. When he finally returned, he got the last box, and took the dog. She stood and watched them at the door, whispering in pain, "You're not coming back again, are you?"

He looked ashamed as he ducked out, and never looked back.

Time passed, but the memory still stung. She remembered staring at her empty finger, wondering where she went wrong. She cried a lot back then, blindsided by the breakup. It took months until the truth came out, and then she was filled with anger. Knowing what she did now, she wish she never wasted tears on someone like him. It took three years to sooth the rage that built up.

Her own regret? She should have made him leave the dog.