It feels like I’ve been standing here for years. Stuck behind the plastic ramparts, permanently besieged. Before, they used to crowd around me, thirsty with need. Now they’re more ordered. They come at me singly or in pairs, socially distanced, waving the bits of plastic that get them what they want.
At first I noticed all the variations. The worried ones in expensive suits, always in a hurry. The students and hipsters, still able to laugh and hold one another’s hands. The old, squinting at the menu above my head, not sure what they wanted. After a while, all the faces were the same. Sometimes, at the end of a long shift, it seemed like they were melting, losing their shape, falling from the bones like overstewed meat.
I don’t see that so much now. The masks hold them together. All I see now are the eyes, peering over the triangle of cloth which anchors their face to their ears, hides the dreadful mouths chewing, grimacing, smashing words together, dripping molten language. Now it’s just the muffled mumbling ghost of their needs, voices amplified by the big pools of confusion in their eyes. I don’t know what I can do to help them. I pour the coffee into the cups and I draw the little picture on top and I make them wave their card at the machine. I don’t say much. They don’t expect me to.
Once, I used to have to smile, though. That was the worst part. Smile at the customers, smile as I took their money, smile even when I turned my back to make their lattes or fetch their lemon muffins. Smile, though my face is aching. Smile, even though I’m faking. When there are fears in the sky we’ll all die. If I didn’t smile enough the air would buzz and crackle with give us a smile luv and it might never ‘appen and whassamatter, scared your face’ll crack. If I didn’t smile enough I’d be called upstairs for a performance review.
We’re still supposed to do it, really. Makes the customers feel welcome, especially now. Smile behind your mask, they say, and you’ll smile with your eyes as well. My eyes don’t smile. I stare at each one of them through the wobbly perspex screen and hope our masks won’t fall off. Because I’m afraid of what we’ll see if they do.
Clare O’Brien lives in the Scottish Highlands, where she is Poet In Residence at The National Trust For Scotland’s Inverewe Garden. Her latest poetry chapbook, Breathing Out Becomes White and Snowfall, was published by the UK’s Intergraphia Books in October this year, her speculative novelette AIRLOC appeared in 2024 on New York’s ELJ Editions; her ekphrastic poetry chapbook Who Am I Supposed To Be Driving? responding to the music of David Bowie, came out in 2022 with the UK’s Hedgehog Poetry Press. Her work has appeared in various British and American journals and anthologies. She can be found on Bluesky at @clareobrien.bsky.social
“SMILE” has previously appeared in POPSHOT Quarterly.