Spoiler
This is for Yuriiko's Postsecrets contest 
Jenny,
I’m not a regular.
I come every week or so, each time hoping to catch a glimpse of that smile you flash whenever I order, as if you are approving of the instant coffees I addictively drink. Or of the swift way you count the money I offer, as if you already know that I would never cheat you.
The best is when you call me by my name.
“Ellie. It’s been a while, now.”
The way you say it gives me pleasure in ways it shouldn’t.
Sometimes you call me Ma’am, though. Those are the Bad Days. You come up to my table with that distant look in your eyes, busy in your own world. And you don’t see me. I know through the rapid little nod that you recognise my face, but nothing more. Nothing deeper.
“Good morning, Ma’am. What would you like to order today?”
Those are the days I don’t tip you. I pick up my handbag and gulp down the last of my coffee, the lumps of unmixed powder sliding roughly down my throat. And I leave without looking back.
It’s a form of punishment. I hope you can understand that.
Today was a Bad Day. I entered the café, fresh from work at the Dumpster. It’s a charity for the homeless, given its nickname by the amount of money that goes down the drains that the homeless people sit above. I, myself, get paid minimum wages for horribly long working hours. That is why I can’t come here regularly. That stupid boss needs to go. As you can imagine, I wasn’t in the best of moods. I’d had a row with a colleague. My boss had threatened to take even more off my wages. A yob across the street had called me a ‘fatty’.
The saddest thing is that these things aren’t rarities.
I took my usual place in the far left corner, feeling hot and bothered. My hair was springing out of its bun, clinging to the mixture of sweat and foundation that crusted on my forehead. When I saw you coming, I looked away. I couldn’t let you see me like this, not in this state.
But your voice brought my face right back round. It is a deep and wholesome voice, so reassuring. It reminds me of the colour brown: down to earth, yet golden in the light.
“Good morning,” you said. I didn’t reply, just smiled and looked you in the eye. You see, whenever I have the pleasure of meeting your eye, I soften inside. Those eyes… they’re like melted chocolate, the softest and richest you could imagine. Each time, the chocolate seeps into my cold, blue eyes; warming them up.
But my newly acquired warmth got stabbed in the heart by your next words.
“What would you like to order today, Ma’am?”
I cleared my throat. Looked away.
“Instant coffee.”
You nodded quickly, maybe upset by my lack of a ‘please’. “Anything else?”
I shook my head, you walked away. No tip for you today, I thought, shooting the words at your back, hoping that you were feeling them.
You didn’t seem to have felt them, though, when you came back with my coffee, all politeness and smiles.
“There you go, Ma’am. That will be-”
I handed you the money before you could give me the price. My little way of reminding you that I have been here many times before.
You chuckled when you saw that I’d given you the exact amount, right down to the last penny. I looked at the plush cream walls and padded, brown seats in desperation. After a year. A year. I wanted to scream at you. Don’t you recognise me?
But, even in the midst of my anger, I couldn’t help but notice that your hair looked especially nice today: a loose bun, so that the bits that weren’t caught hung in big coconut-shell waves, bouncing around your face. And your lips looked nice and plump today.
When you walked away, leaving me alone with my coffee, I observed the little disclaimer at the bottom of the cup: Careful, the drink you’re about to enjoy is extremely hot. A smile pushing at my lips, I dug a marker out of my bag and crossed out drink, replacing it with customer. I laughed. You’d enjoy that.
Maybe that would help you acknowledge me.
Jenny, I’ve got a kind, loyal fiancé, who loves me very much. But, of course, it’s not enough. You’ve probably gathered this already, but I’m going to say it anyway: I like women. Congratulations, you are the first to know.
I’m afraid that by telling my religious family they’ll push me away; damn me to a life of volcanic fires and bloody ashes in Hell. So can this be our little secret, please? Even though I will probably never send this letter, I have to at least pretend you’ll read it; otherwise the weight of this secret will kill me.
… I like women, but most of all I like you. Not only are you beautiful, you’re modest with it. And you’re fantastic company. You are always smiling, your eyes bright as if a laugh is constantly bubbling in your throat. Your jokes are hilarious: you should be a star, not a waitress.
I know you can’t feel the same way about me. For one thing, I’m far from attractive. For another, you have a husband and four children, the eldest being eight, the youngest two. You told me that on one of those special days, when I was your only customer. We had a chat, you and I. I was almost convinced you liked me back by the end of the day.
But the next week you called me Ma’am again. I was so upset, so disappointed in you, that I didn’t come back for another few weeks afterwards.
It’s a vicious circle with razor sharp edges, and it’s cutting me to shreds.
I want to be more than a customer to you. I want to be more than Ma’am.
And I need you to know that.
That’s why, in leaving the café today, I took the marker back out of my bag, got hold of my styrofoam cup, and, on top of my little disclaimer joke, wrote the words that needed to be said:
When you call me Ma’am, you lose your tip.
-Ellie
