The Sofa Surfer
She’d stayed long enough to accumulate a debt.
**Caution — This story contains non-consent and may be triggering for some readers. Please be advised.**
Author note: Not sure where exactly this sad little piece came from, but it feels like it’s plucked right out of some bigger tragedy of Sasha’s life. Not sure if the rest will ever come to me, to write it down.
She had the backpack packed with the sort of precision that only came with loads of practice. All the essentials fit in their own little nooks — the clothes, toiletries, a towel, charger and power bank, bandaids and pepper spray, protein bars and a reusable water bottle, and a combination lock, which had also served her as a weapon on occasion. But more often than not, she got along without any weapons.
Aside from her impeccable packing, Sasha had to be a people person, to make friends wherever she went, to make instant connections that appealed to human compassion. She was always an accommodating co-worker at the diner, willing to swap shifts and work late. And when she finagled her way into crashing on someone’s couch, she made sure to leave a positive impression that would persuade the person to let her stay again. She’d cook them breakfast in the morning, or do a sink-full of dishes, or scrub the bathroom for them while they were still asleep. It was the least she could do, she explained to them, for their hospitality.
There were very few people in whom she confided the whole truth, including the fact that she had no permanent place to stay. Most of the time, she just said that her roommate had someone over or that she had a fight with her boyfriend and needed a couple of nights away from him. But there was no boyfriend and no roommate. Sasha had been on the move for a couple of years now and the lifestyle had become second nature.
“You need to get a job in hospitality,” one of her friends advised her over a plate of fries, behind the diner, after their shift was over. “Get a job at a decent hotel, something by the airport maybe, and you can probably sneak your way to getting a good sleep in some of the unused rooms.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Sasha nodded. “I don’t know how feasible it is without a permanent address, though. Plus, what experience do I have with shit like that?”
“Waitressing is great experience! That’s basically non-stop customer service,” Leona encouraged her. “And Mr. Bill would definitely give you a glowing recommendation. As would any of the assistant managers.”
Leona wasn’t wrong about that — it was certainly something worth looking into.
“Ready to go, Sasha?” One of the newer hostesses, Kathy, asked as she emerged through the back door. She was letting her stay on the sofa tonight, having heard about the fight she’d had with her non-existent boyfriend.
“Yep, I’m ready.” Sasha sprang back up, snatching up her backpack and slinging it over one shoulder before following Kathy to her car. “Thanks again for letting me stay over.”
“No problem. I know very well what it’s like. My boyfriend can be a fucking jackass too sometimes.”
