Annie Edison had always been destined for greatness.
She liked to think that she had been born ready. Except instead of an inexplicable knowledge of air vent layouts and the ability to dodge machine gun fire, that preparedness manifested itself in color-coded binders and never needing an adult to explain what a 401k was.
She was a straight A student. She was a school supply enthusiast, a taker of unneeded extra credit, a champion of chores. She was a smart, responsible girl.
She was a cashier at a bakery on the campus of a community college. She made nine bucks an hour and had recently starting finding the smell of chocolate nauseating.
Also, she had a stalker.
...Well, not a real stalker. She wasn't interesting enough to have a real stalker. What she had was a haggard blonde girl who stumbled in twice a day, bought an armload of cookies - Annie stopped even offering her a bag two weeks in - and left muttering to herself.
Annie didn't know much about this girl. She knew her name was Britta, because once another customer had greeted her as such, to which she had snarled, "Up yours, Winger." She knew she was the kind of girl who wouldn't shy away of saying "up yours" in a public place. She knew she was stressed out, like, all the time, because that was the only logical explanation for the dark circles under her eyes and the way her hair seemed to have achieved new levels of tangled. And last but not least, she knew that Britta somehow only bought cookies during her shift, even when that shift was at two am. (Seriously. Annie had a sketch pinned on the back of the counter and had instructed every other server to inform her if she bought cookies from them. No dice.)
But Annie wasn't huge on confrontations with strangers, especially not at work, where she could get fired if things went south. Which meant that she would probably never find out the truth about her stalker-but-probably-not.
Or at least, that's how it would have gone if Britta hadn't made the mistake of actually speaking during her last visit.
Annie remembered it in vivid detail:
It was raining outside, a pleasant white-noise for Annie to enjoy within the warm bakery. She was wearing, as she always did, a cream shirt and green apron, her brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, her face beaming with her best "the customer is always right, and retail is not killing my soul in the slightest" smile.
The door suddenly slammed open. A very soaked, very angry looking Britta stamped in, dripping all over the floor. Her hair was even more of a mess than usual, wet and sticking all over her face and leather jacket. She grimaced, slamming one hand on the counter. "Let's not do this whole charade, okay?" she said, tapping her foot loudly. "You know why I'm here."
Annie nodded quickly and began scooping cookies out of the case, but Britta continued ranting.
"Because my life has fallen apart, and I will never, ever escape this place. And neither will you, neither will any of us, because this placeeats souls. And I know you think you're different, I see you with your judging little looks and disapproving noises, but don't you dare judge me." She reached across the counter and took the baked goods, struggling to pull her wallet out of her purse without dropping them. "I need these cookies to survive. I have midterms in two weeks, and I'm failing Spanish. I can't afford my rent, much less my vet bills."
"Do you… need help?"
Britta ignored her, continuing to struggle, words falling out of her mouth faster and faster. "Don't even get me started on the state of free speech on this campus. You raise your voice even a little and you get thrown out of the library. What am I supposed to do now? My professor said if I used Wikipedia as a source one more time she would flunk me, but that's just because she lives in the dark ages and-"
She finally managed to drop her wallet on the counter. It took another minute for her to pull out a credit card and half-hand, half-throw it to Annie, who couldn't help but notice Britta was adding more and more expletives to her tirade.
"Thanks," Britta finally muttered, once she had everything in order and was headed out the door. Annie grabbed a rag to dry off the counter, listening as Britta's muttered complaints became softer and softer.
That was Tuesday. This was Friday. And during the days in between, Annie had spent every spare moment, (which, to be fair, weren't all that many when you were as efficient as her), giving herself pep talks on what to do the next time Britta came in. She would stand up for herself. Give that girl a piece of her mind. Learn her last name, her reason for stalking-not-stalking Annie, and if it turned out not to be a creepy reason, possibly her phone number. You know. Maybe. It would depend on how her week was going, what her schedule was like, if Britta's hair really smelled like peaches or if it was her imagination... Lots of variables to consider.
At the sound of the door, Annie looked up from the table she was scrubbing. The bakery was empty, which was no big surprise, given that it was her two am shift, but what was surprising was that the woman who had just walked in was Britta. And she looked… together. And sheepish, almost.
"Hey," she said, clasping her hands in front of her. "Um, so about last time-"
"That was really rude of you!" cried Annie, before she could stop herself. She tossed down the damp rag. "I have enough to worry about without someone coming in here and dripping all over my floor and telling me I'm going to die here! And why are you always here when I'm here? Do you have a copy of my schedule or something? Cause it's a little creepy." She stopped and bit her tongue.
Britta raised an eyebrow. "Is that all you got?" she asked. "Cause as you clearly saw, I'm kind of a master ranter, and that didn't sound finished."
"Okay…" said Annie, "well, do you even know my name? I know you're Britta, but I'm Annie and I don't think you know that, which is kind of annoying given that I see you eight times a week. And I don't know what your job is, but I think, like, half your salary is going directly into my hands. And it's gotten to the point where I think you might have a real baked goods problem. I mean, I've been through rehab, I know what the signs are." She paused for breath. "How was that?" she asked finally.
Britta smiled and nodded. "The student becomes the master. Anyway, I'm only here because I finished my paper and I may have regained my sanity somewhat. I wanted to apologize."
Annie smiled, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "That's not really necessary…"
"Also," Britta added, "I'm kind of sick of cookies. How are the brownies here?"
Annie shrugged. "Good, but there's a coffee shop a couple blocks away that's way better. Don't tell my boss I said that."
Britta glanced at the clock. "Would they still even be open?"
Annie nodded. "They're next to a college. They know their demographic. My shift gets off in fifteen?"
For the first time in all their meetings Britta grinned. "Sounds great."
Annie gulped. They were walking down the street side-by-side, and she could feel Britta's body heat. Her hair glowed in the light of the streetlights. Their hands brushed. "So you never told me why you always came in during my shifts!" she said quickly, hoping Britta couldn't see her cheeks turning pink.
"Oh," said Britta, with a laugh. "I came in during Abed's shift once. He told me all about how you were getting more and more annoyed with my cookie needs, and I thought it would be fun to mess with you." After a moment, she added, "And it was."
"He said he never saw you!" she cried. "I am so not covering for him this Saturday." They walked a little further before Annie added, "So you were just pretending to be angry and functioning entirely on a diet of butter and sugar?"
"...Yes. Let's go with that."
Annie snorted. Britta rolled her eyes and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.
Hmm, thought Annie, leaning over to peck a kiss on her lips, she does smell like peaches. I should find out what shampoo she uses.