One year later. June
The room was filled with a faraway hissing noise, the humming of machines, the clatter of dishes. Conversations flitted about the space like birds on caffeine. Caffeine… yeah. A coffee sounds nice. Another hiss, more talking, one voice louder than the others.
"Kyle! Eh! Kyle man!"
Kyle… Oh yeah. That's me. Caim shook his head, snapping out of his foggy headspace and coming back to reality. He looked over at the burly main chef who was currently starring in his direction. "Oi, you back with us?"
Not even close. "Yes Sir."
The corner of the man's mouth twitched up into a smile as he dumped a pan of pasta onto a plate and slid it onto the counter. "Order up!" he called, still watching Caim. "What's up with you man? You've been in another universe all day."
If I told you I'd probably get fired. "Nothing. Slept badly." Caim turned back to his station, which was currently empty and clean. It was about nine at night on a Wednesday so the crowds were at a minimum and he was, at the moment, unneeded. Steven, the main chef, walked up to him as a female waitress by the name of Mary took the food away. "We don't need you cutting your hand like you did last week-"
Caim looked down at his hands, primarily at his gloved left hand.
"-so you'd better shape up quick or tell me that I should take those knives away from you."
There's nothing you can do. "I'll be ok Sir, thank you. I wasn't feeling well last week and I guess I'm having aftereffects from the medication." They're aftereffects alright, just not from that kind of medication.
"Alright, well we need you here on Earth with us. Snap out of whatever those aftereffects are and join us in the kitchen."
"Yes Sir."
Steven walked back over to his part of the small galley kitchen and Caim let out a quiet sigh. He ran a hand through over the bandanna that held back his longer than he liked dark hair and scratched the back of his neck. Damn. The room spun a little and he gripped the edge of the counter. He tried to focus on the clock on the wall across from him but the numbers duplicated and crossed over each other all at once. He knew what was causing his dizziness and the headache that had raged over his mind earlier but he didn't want to think about it tell alone tell his boss.
When the clock settled back onto the off-white wall he managed to read that it was about twenty after nine, ten minutes before closing and forty minutes before he could leave. He took a deep breath and finished up his shift in his usual silence. When he was helping to do the final cleanup of the restaurant the manager came downstairs holding a handful of envelopes. Caught up in his own nonexistent thoughts Caim didn't notice until the lady stepped up in front of him as he was sweeping up.
"Kyle." She addressed him in a quiet voice and he looked up, blinking to bring her into focus. She handed him one of the envelopes and gave him a small smile. "Will we be seeing you tomorrow?" she asked, as she did every night. He shook his head. "I don't think so Ma'am. Thank you generously for letting me work here, but I don't plan on being here tomorrow."
"Understandable," she replied, turning to give the other workers their weekly pay. She paid them every week as she sometimes hired wanders as she called them. People like Caim who wandered around from city to city and needed a place to work. There were very, very few places that would take the risk but she herself had been a wander and had only gotten where she was – married with a young son and this restaurant – because someone took a chance with her. Therefore she thought it was her duty to take in people just like her past self.
"Well good luck," she told him, and he smiled and nodded in reply. Pocketing the envelope deep into his jean pockets he finished sweeping and put the broom away.
"It was nice to work with you man," Steven told him, coming up behind him. Caim nodded and turned to face the larger man. "Likewise," he replied. Steven smiled and they shook hands. The first time the man had done that to him he had felt awkward and sorry for the kind man that he was touching something so dirty. Since that afternoon eleven days ago Caim had become slightly more used to the contact and didn't flinch when the other workers clapped him on the shoulder or some other form of contact.
Caim left without another word, retrieving his mismatched bag from the back storeroom.