It was almost lunch break, that in-between hour when everyone started glancing at clocks as if the minute hand owed them money. Amara stood alone in the cleaning staff's locker room, sleeves rolled up, hair slipping from her ponytail, slowly gathering her belongings. The air smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and old metal. Honestly, she'd never expected to feel anything at all while emptying out a locker she'd only half-claimed to begin with, but somehow her chest tightened anyway.
She tugged out a pair of worn gloves, a folded cardigan, and, tucked in the corner, a little pack of cheap crackers she'd forgotten she bought weeks ago.
She thought she'd be relieved, ecstatic even, if she ever resigned from this job because of another good job. Another person might have done a spin, a tiny victory dance, or sent a ridiculous thank-you prayer to the universe for escaping toilet-scrubbing duty. But she didn't feel any of that.
