Today's Special

Very few things made Artem feel unsettled.

She walked slowly and cleaned deliberately to watch the world around her as she worked – this was not the kind of place that greeted her with warmth. Her site expected diligence and consistency, both of which she prized in herself. You do not grow as a female body and lack the self-awareness needed to maintain the illusion of safety needed to survive. Artem knew the truth of her existence. Every person was a potential threat. The levels of influential people above her were many, and Artem did not have the luxury of power.

As she cleaned the surfaces of her workplace, Artem felt the slow, rhythmic dance of the heart-shaped locket, cold metal against her chest. The dim lights and soft music were familiar, as was the locket’s presence – her tether to this world. An heirloom that took on greater importance through the generations, the locket was of great significance to her family: it gave them the ability to exist. To be seen. To be known. A remembrance of hard fought survival.

The ritual had not been elaborate. She watched as her mother took the piece of jewelry from her neck, carefully, and let it pool into Artem’s hand. “This is our legacy. This is our life. Do not take it off. Do not tell anyone what this is.” She later came to learn that all young women of her status and age had a tether – usually a piece of jewelry – that connected their family to this plane of existence. With this knowledge, Artem began to see evidence of this practice in the world. A beautiful wristwatch. A single, small emerald earring. A golden family crest pinned to a collar. Reminders to themselves and their social strata of a deep and ever tenuous divide between freedom and safety.

Artem preferred her locket to other possible tethers. Easily hidden and intimate in ways only she knew. Inside were photos of her grandmother and mother – the previous guardians of their family. A reminder of the trust and weight of responsibility that Artem now held.

She continued to work, wetting and ringing out the dirty towel into the increasingly cloudy water. Artem’s job was one of the few remaining for those in her strata. Without the ease given to those with generational wealth, she found herself working daily, serving those with privileges greater than her own. Her hands bore the marks of labor; short, undecorated nails, skin that was dry to the touch, and scars that represented the hazards of service work.

The bell that marked customers entering the building gave a soft jingle, the opposite cadence of the heavy sounds of boots hitting the floor that followed. Of the few things that evoked her fear response, this was one of them.

The group of men walked steadily and comfortably to the partition. She watched them carefully, though they did not afford her the same attention. Dressed in black uniforms, they had the government’s favor: sworn to protect, regardless of the cost. Artem envied their confidence. To be a man in a world that was made for you, that loved you back. She sat aside her fears as the rag she held fell back into the bucket, and she found her place behind the partition.

The men laughed loudly and talked casually as they made their way to the counter. Artem placed her locket underneath her shirt and apron and put on a smile that she hoped did not mirror her growing feelings of panic, evident in the quickening beat of her heart.

“Hello, sir. How can I help you today?” she asked, as calmly as she could, a practiced coolness evident in her tone. The first man to come to the counter did so with an air of the unearned authority she had come to recognize - and hate. Artem burned with a mix of fear and rage toward these men and the systems they represented, though her face did not betray the neutrality necessary for these strained interactions.

His eyes searched behind her, looking for the answer to her question. Artem took note of the golden bar that read “D. Bates” across his chest. Her world had not changed into an authoritarian one in a fatal blow. There was a slow trickle that gradually turned into the ocean of power that now covered them all. While some could float along easily, she swam in it poorly. “Better than drowning,” her internal dialogue mused sardonically. D. Bates was just one of the many weights that kept Artem and those like her from swimming with ease. She watched his face and was surprised when his eyes turned back to her.

“What do you recommend?”

An innocuous enough question. After all, Artem did work at a coffee shop.

“I like the iced mocha best,” she replied. “It’s even better if you substitute coconut milk.” He studied her for a moment. Every second under his gaze increased the tension Artem held in her arms and shoulders. “I’ll stick with my usual,” he said, followed by an order for a large hot coffee with cream. “The iced mocha can wait for next time.” He paid, and the other men with him quickly ordered and did the same.

Artem focused on fulfilling the orders, quickly. Methodically. She wanted to go back to the normal sense of discomfort she had at work – not the clear imbalance that these men brought with their presence.

“A large hot coffee with cream,” she said clearly, waiting on D. Bates to retrieve the cup. He smiled to his colleagues and walked the few steps to get the drink from Artem’s hands.

“That’s a beautiful locket,” he said. “Where is it from?”

Artem grabbed the locket on reflex, eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, it’s nothing. A birthday gift from my mom.” She hoped his attention would fade and placed the locket back underneath her shirt. “Can I see it more closely?” D. Bates asked. Though her mind and body vibrated with a chorus of “no,” Artem knew the consequences of voicing anything but “Sure.” She placed it in her hand and moved across the counter, closing the gap between them.

“Beautiful,” he said, running a finger over the small details of the golden heart’s front side. “And unforgettable.” His tone did not match the gleam Artem saw as she looked back into his gaze. Artem froze, locket in hand, as D. Bates’ colleagues called on him to leave. “I’ll see you again soon,” he whispered, as a smile came to his face. She couldn’t look away, but she did not respond.

She knew threats. “He knows,” she thought. Horror washed through her as the bell’s jingle marked the man’s exit from the store. The receipts from the drinks had the date: June 20, 2021. One that Artem would soon recall as the beginning of the end.