Good Knees

Smile. It just might kill you.

This is what I'm thinking to myself as I gnash my teeth, trying to keep a public service smile smeared across my Lancome mouth. My last customer, a guy outfitted in Mossy Oak attire from toes to teeth, reaches into my window and grabs his food as if he were doing a transaction performed by an uncooperative machine.

Twitch, twich. Caffiene levels rising. Refill the Dr. Pepper. How was southern cross-and-bear-it woman her normal honeybee self before the creation of our favorite beverage?

I slide my aching hands into the cool wash of fresh air in the window. Today feels like the first slap of spring wind on my tight knuckles. Today, I am the freshman co-ed in three quarter length sleeves. Long hair. Vice president, first chair, able. Good knees. Unembarrassed of my physique. Eight years. It's been eight years. And I wonder why I'm angry.