The Joys Of Selling Soft Drinks

Students mill around me, old and young alike, a massive blur of navy blue and grey with outstretched hands. I struggle to take their grimy coins that no longer shine in the sunlight, while handing them soda cans dripping in moisture that was once ice cubes.

Suddenly, I glance up from my duties as Student Council Member, and find solace in the haze of children and teenagers. He has joined the queue.

I barely hear his order, muffled by screams and shouts. I barely manage to break his gaze.

His auburn eyes lock onto mine, and I am swept into a daze. We stand under a shade cloth, yet his eyes’ catch a glint of light, which shines resolutely towards me. I think I know him; I may never have spoken a word to him, but I feel his passions and wishes, his intelligence and kindness, in all but a stare. Surely he must know mine by now?

“Stop dreaming, Helena,” Fiona exclaims afterwards. “He doesn’t even know your name!”

“No,” I reply. “He may not know my name. But he knows my soul. And that’s enough.”

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