Apprentice- Daily Post

I wake up with a cramming headache and unfocused eyes. As I get up from my blue and black covered bed, my head gets clearer and suddenly I think to look at the red alarm clock I have next to my bed. Crap. It’s already five o’clock a.m., and I’m supposed to be at my apprenticeship by five fifteen. I run to my brown wooden closet and grab my daily uniform, a pair of blue jeans and a white blouse. On my way out, I grab a mint, my raspberry scented phone, and my favorite black purse I stole from my mom a couple years back. She thinks it looks better on me anyways. I pick up the pace when I get outside, rush to pull my good, old, rusty, and blue-ish truck out of the driveway from my home sweet home. I work in a house basics and life training apprenticeship where I do everything from clean toilets to carve sculptures. I end up being a few minutes late, but my boss Marcie never minds. She’s used to me being late every once in a while, but what can I say, it’s in my genetics. Right now, I’m learning with hands-on experience to do advanced sowing, and to be an excellent waitress. The next course is fingerpainting and cooking. For every course there’s one that makes Marcie money, (examples: waitressing and cooking) and one that I get to learn as a sort of exchange for her getting all of the money I earn in the other department. I’m not exactly sure why we call it an apprenticeship, but I guess it’s very close to the ideals an apprentice would get. 

“Wris? Hey, I need you to start the waitressing in about five, you got it?” Marcie calls out.

“Definitely. Be riiiiiiight there.” I walk up to her after I get my apron on and pull my hair up in a strict bun, “What’re my tables for the day?”

“Better take numbers nine, fifteen, ten, three, and twenty eight,” she answers. 

“Stretching me out today?”

“I know you’ll get it done. Come on, let’s get this show on the road. Hey! Dessa!” She goes off to go show Dessa, another apprentice, what tables she has, and I go over to table nine, seeing there’s a customer.

“May I help you?” I ask the dark haired man sitting down at the booth. He looks about my age, sixteen. Maybe seventeen because I’m bad at judging ages sometimes. He has tan skin and mysterious eyes, but I try not to look at them too much. I don’t know why, but this guy makes me nervous. 

“Yes, you may.”

-OnlyMe wishing a good day to all


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