Where The Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
5 minutes before bed, Toronto
She sat on the cooler, the bubbly sweetness tickling down her throat. The soda wasn’t cold enough yet but it tasted creamier when it wasn’t cold. That’s what she thought but Serena always argued differently. Serena insisted they bury the Tahiti Treats at the bottom of the cooler as soon as they started their shift so they would be properly chilled by the first break. She hadn’t had time this morning. The old guy in 112 had caught her before she could escape to the next room and she had spent twenty minutes hovering in his doorway making all kinds of signs with her body that she needed to step away from the threshold. He was oblivious. He was oblivious to everything in the here and now.
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