The Smile

10am

I know that hyena smile—toothy but awkward beneath ominous eyes. It means she wants something, usually unpleasant, but is trying to be polite about it.

I brace myself, while returning a more cordial smile, the one I wear five hours a day for customers and colleagues alike. My shield.

'What's this about a course you're doing?' she asks, her interest tinged with judgement.

'Yes, I've started an Access course. It's nearby. Fits perfectly on my days off. It's quite cool so far,' I reply, unsure what her complaint is this time.

She saves me the trouble of wondering any further, the edge in her voice now undeniable.

'You're supposed to make yourself available in case I need cover.'

One of my eyebrows tries to rise. The corners of my smile twitch—first downwards then up. I compose myself and respond calmly.

'Oh, I'm happy to skip classes if necessary. I've already discussed this with the boss. You don't need to worry.'

I love my smile for two reasons. It's part of my serene mask that stops me from losing my shit. But it also makes bullies like her squirm as their attacks or attempts to get a rise out of me crash and burn.

She fidgets, strings together some incoherent words—part approval, part reprimand—and walks away. She didn't draw tears this time. I consider it a win.

2pm

The table lamp clangs against the glass counter before he graces me with a hoarse voice and haughty gaze. Neither has changed since I served him two days ago, but today he's clean-shaven and wearing a black suit jacket over his Rolling Stones t-shirt.

'Ummm, I got this lamp here the other day,' he says. 'It stopped working. I'd like a refund.'

I look down at the lamp, an ugly metal retro thing, and clap my chest, heartbroken.

'Oh, no, what happened?' I exclaim. 'We tested it before you bought it, remember? And it worked fine.'

'Yeah, no. I don't know what happened. I went home, plugged it in, and it wouldn't turn on.'

I notice that the lightbulb I sold it with is missing. 'Did you check the bulb? Try a new one?'

'Yeah, yeah, I tried everything. It doesn't work,' he grumbles as he leans against the counter, shifting from foot to foot, voice rising.

He's tall and getting agitated, so I look him straight in the eye and don my sweetest smile. It melts butter, I hear.

'Not to worry, love. Let's see if we can find the problem. If not, we'll get this sorted. Do you still have the lightbulb by any chance?'

He softens, cheeks turning ruddy, and averts his gaze. 'Nah, I tossed it.'

'Not a problem. We have fresh ones here.'

As I pull one out of the box beneath the counter, he gulps and inches back. I screw the bulb into the lamp, plug that into a nearby socket, and, lo and behold, we're engulfed in a bubble of bright white light.

'Fancy that.' I marvel at our now heavenly surroundings, crystal glasses and ornaments gleaming on the shelves, every colour on display popping. 'There's life in the old chap yet. Must have been the lightbulb that snuffed it.'

My gaze is innocent as I unplug the lamp and wrap the cable around its neck. His thick brows furrow.

'Uh-huh,' he grunts through a pout and in no hurry to reclaim his revived property. 'Can I still have my money back?'

'Afraid not. It's in working order, just as when you bought it. The best I can do is an exchange. You can have anything from the shop up to the lamp's value. If you have the receipt I gave you.'

'Uh, nah. Tossed that, too. It was like a tenner, I think,' he shrugs.

'Really?'

My fingers brush the lamp's base where a label used to be, displaying the price: £7.99. I wrote it myself.

'I don't remember it being that much,' I reply and fix him with an apologetic smile. 'In any case, without the receipt, I can't offer a refund or an exchange. Strict company policy, I'm afraid. I'm really sorry for the inconvenience. But you get to keep a pretty cool lamp. And the new lightbulb? On the house.' I wink. 'It's still a great steal.'

6pm

The front door slams shut. My sigh echoes through the hallway. I kick my shoes off, peel my feet out of my socks, and relish the soothing coolness of the wood against my aching roots. Can't have workers sitting at the till, see?

My head drops back against my shoulders, and I stretch my face, silent-screaming at the ceiling, eyes bulging, arms slack at my sides. If the ceiling had a soul, it would flinch at my gnashing teeth as I work my mask out of my face.

I let my head flop down, the smile downturned and feeling fantastic. My grumpy cat slippers swallow my feet, and I make for the kitchen, dragging one foot in front of the other. That soft slithering sound—music to my ears.

I stare out the window as the boiling kettle fills the room with steam. No emotion. No need for a shield. Just calmly waiting for my tea, while the laptop whirs to life in the other room. I follow the ritual in silence: teabag, water, milk, each motion and sound relaxing me further.

With the mug clutched beneath my nose, I inhale the steam and stroll into the living room, sink into the sofa. I take a sip and set the mug on a coaster beside me. It's time. A bit late in the day, but she said it was okay.

I open Skype, find Barbara Ite, and launch the video call. Two seconds, and she answers—in a mint-green hoodie instead of her usual sharp attire. Her kind face welcomes me regardless.

'Hi, Dr Bite. Thanks for seeing me. I won't keep you long,' I babble, but she waves me off.

'Think nothing of it. Now, what's the matter? Good day or bad?'

'Good. Very good. It worked again. I used different smiles for a few difficult situations, staying calm, as we practiced.'

I sip my tea, my chest already warm with confidence, briefly lighting my face up before I let it relax again.

'See?' Dr Bite chirps and leans closer to the camera. 'Harness the smile and your inner strength. Bullies don't stand a chance. Tell me everything.'