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Mary really didn't want to be rude, but her shift had been grueling and her tips had been low that night, and her mind just couldn't form the words that would convey that she'd really just like to be left alone to smoke in peace to the little rat child that had stopped by her bench and decided to watch her with those big, black eyes of hers. The bench was warm (though not hot, like it had been on her first smoke break - thank God), air stunk of sweat, cigarette, and car smog, and the sun was beginning to set behind the distant skyscrapers, which would normally look beautiful if it were on a postcard to send distant friends or relatives, but all Mary saw was the herald of the oppressive darkness that would fall over her on her long walk back to her apartments (since the busses didn't run that late, and her car had long broken down from lack of maintenance and spare cash to fix it). She was only four hours in to her eight hour shift without any hopes of a substantial lunch break and the hour was almost eight o'clock - there'd be a slow down for about an hour, and then a sudden surge as their late-night patrons would shuffle their way over with their textbooks under their arms and bags under their eyes looking for a (semi)quiet place to set up camp and study well into the night for the next morning's test.

And this, of course, was just the mundane troubles she had to worry about; this didn't take into account the fact her least favorite fellow waitress was on duty that night, which was normally manageable, but she was only on duty because Maxie had to make sudden change in the schedule to be able to go on a date with his new beau of only a few weeks. She liked Maxie: he was a sweet kid that always treated her nice, and she was looking forward to having another shift with the big sweetheart to pry all the juicy little details out of him about what he and his skunk had gotten up to the night before; so imagine her surprise (and dismay) to find out, as she walked through the doors, that the one beacon of hope and joy in her night was off at some fancy restaurant while she was stuck alone with Mrs. Bitch-And-Moan all night long.

And so Mary really didn't want to be rude, but she was just not in the mood to politely explain to the sticky-pawed, private-school-looking seven-something year old kid that decided to plant her paws on the pavement in front of her and stare up at the weasel with undue interest just how much she wanted to be left alone.

"What do you want, kid?" Mary croaked.

The kid stood there shyly for a moment, then ducked her little grey-furred head and held her paws behind her back. "Hi."

"Hi," Mary said. She did her best to keep her tone level. "What do you want?"

"Why are you doing that?"

"Doing what?" She held up her cigarette between her index and middle finger. "Smoking?"

"Yeah," the kid said. "My mommy says it's bad for you."

"It is," Mary said. She took a long, deep-breathed drag, held the smoke in her lungs, and then let the smoke seep through her nose as she exhaled slowly. "Awful for you, kid. Never pick it up, it's a nasty habit."

"Then why do you do it?" The kid said it so damn innocently.

Freedom, Mary wanted to say. Freedom from the rows of tables and chairs and yuppies and toddlers and elderly couples that never make up their minds (or know exactly what they want, and won't take any variance without sending it back and refusing to tip) and college kids that camp out your tables and never leave enough of a tip to make up for the business their table might have been if it had been free. Freedom to take a step outside of work and take a moment for yourself, because even lunch breaks weren't something you could claim for yourself - food was always for the customers. When the only thing you could call your own in those eight hours of servitude and obedience was your fading health and future tumors, and the very act that caused both.

"You wouldn't understand, kid," Mary said instead. Because how could this kid possibly get it if she tried to explain?

"But won't smoking, like, kill you?" The kid said.

"Yeah, sure," Mary said. "But so will living, so I don't see much a problem with it if that's all it'll do."

The kid wrinkled her forehead up and put on the most exaggerated frown Mary had ever seen. "How could you say that? Dying's bad!"

"It happens to all of us," Mary said. "Can't be all that bad."

"But ..." the kid stammered. "If you die then people will be sad! What about your mommy and daddy and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and grandpas and grandmas and all your friends?"

Mary couldn't help but smile bitterly. "Most of them are gone by now, and I don't really have all that many friends to really speak of." She fought against a shiver that ran down her spine and made her tail twitch behind her (despite the warm summer heat). "Don't got nobody left to really miss me when I'm gone."

"Well, I'd miss you," the kid said.

"Yeah?" Mary flicked the ashes from the end of her cigarette and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Why's that, kid?"

"Because it's always sad when somebody dies," the kid said. "Even if we're all going to see each other in Heaven someday."

"Heaven, sure," Mary said. It took a lot of effort not to scoff at the notion, for her sake and for the child's. She'd always hated the idea of "suffer in this life to find paradise in the next," because she was one of those Carpe Diem, live in the moment punks back in high school; but at this point if she gave that up, gave up the idea of eternal reward for her ephemeral suffering, then what would she have to continue living for? It certainly wasn't her job, and she didn't have anything worth coming back home to besides a tepid meal zapped in the microwave, her favorite ancient lounge chair, and whatever new hit reality TV show just happened to be on when she smacked her television (which was equally as ancient as the chair) back to life. That, of course, all hinged on if her roommate was home and awake to take up the chair and TV. Then it was bed with a book and earplugs.

"Heaven's a real nice promise, kid," Mary said. "But I'm sure I screwed myself out of a place by our Lord's side a long time ago."

Unless the idea was to suffer for her mistakes, in which she might end up directly to his right at the dinner table. She might even pour God's wine.

"No!" The kid protested. "God loves and forgives all of us, no matter what."

Mary had to force a bitter smile as she bit back her words and bore her eyes into the little rat's skull. "Sure, kid." Unless you follow a different faith or no faith at all; unless you belong to another denomination than whoever's preaching at the time; unless you're "uncivilized" and "savage" and can't be saved because you can't know the word of God. "Whatever you say."

The kid frowned again. "You don't believe me?"

Mary shook her head. "I really want to." But how could she? "And I used to." But that was back when things were going much more her way. "But I just ... I can't anymore, kid." She lowered her gaze and flicked her cigarette butt towards nearest parked car. "Life's just gone too much to shi- ... too much to crap for me to really believe it anymore."

"But you have to," the kid said.

"Why?" Mary said.

"Because God has a plan."

"Does he, now?" Mary just shook her head and fished around in her jacket pocket for another cigarette and her lighter. "And what plan would that be?"

"I don't know," the kid said.

"Yeah?" She stuck the cigarette between her lips and held her zippo to the end until the smell of burning tobacco and paper filled her nostrils. "Then how can you be so sure he's got one for me?"

"I just know," the kid said.

"How?"

"Because I just know!" The kid stomped the ground dramatically and crossed her arms over her chest. "Because my Sunday school teacher says it says so in the Bible."

"And that's all you need?" Mary said.

"Yes."

"Really?" Mary snorted. "That's all you need to believe him without a doubt."

"Yes," the kid said. "And because there has to be a plan."

"And what if there isn't?" Mary said. She hunched forward and folded her paws between her knees as she looked up into the kid's grey-furred, honest face.

The kid's face contorted in disgust and confusion. "There has to be. God wouldn't make us if he didn't have a plan for us."

"Well, what if- ..." Mary snapped her muzzle shut. For the first time since the kid had come over and started staring at her, her heart rose up and stilled her tongue. She sighed through clenched teeth (which really sounded more like a hiss) and looked up into the little grey-furred rat girl's deep black eyes with the kind of bitter scrutiny that she'd slowly gained over her thirty years in the service industry. She was used to the preaching, used to the judgments, used to the elitism and bile and hatred thrown her way because of her age, species, gender, and occupation. She was used to customers yelling at her for things she didn't do, and she was used to people refusing tips because she was slow to refill their coffee. She was used to seeing a lot in the eyes of those she'd served in her thirty years.

She wasn't used to honest innocence.

"What do you want, kid?" Mary said. "Why are you ... why are you standing here, saying all this to me? Why are you doing this?"

"Well, because," the kid said.

"Because why?"

"Because you looked really sad," the kid said. "And sometimes it helps me, when I'm really sad, to remember that God loves me, and I thought helping you remember that might help you, too."

Mary had spent her whole life forcing herself to stay quiet after a customer had said something. Now, she was at a loss of words.

"Anyways," the kid said. "I think my mom's waiting for me, so I gotta go." She gave a little wave as she turned away. She was about half-way back to her car when Mary's brain finally kicked back into gear.

"Wait," Mary barked. She cleared her throat as the kid turned around. "Kid, I ... Look, what's your name, kid?"

"Margaret."

"Margaret," Mary said. "That's a pretty name, kid."

"Thank you!" The kid - Margaret - beamed. "What's yours?"

"Mary," she said. "Like the Virgin Mother."

"That's pretty, too."

"Thank you," Mary said. She looked down between her feet and ran a paw through the fur between her ears then looked back up at Margaret, still standing there patiently as she watched the weasel expectantly. "You, uh," Mary said. "You have a good day, kid. Margaret."

"You too!" Margaret said. She gave another little wave, then darted off back towards her family (who all looked fairly distraught with their daughter's sudden decision to talk to a complete stranger, and not just any stranger, but a dumpy looking stranger who worked at a cheap diner) with her little pink tail waggling loosely behind her.

"I'll try," Mary said softly, and to nobody in particular. She finished off her cigarette as she watched Margaret's family pull out of the parking lot and putter off towards the downtown area until Mary couldn't tell their generic, silver car from all the others around it. She sat and watched, looking at the picturesque landscape before her of the setting sun against the steely landscape (idly wondering if there was anybody else watching the same sunset) until the cigarette between her fingers burned down to the orange butt and she had no further reason to be outside.

Mary stood with a groan as all her joints popped and her muscles creaked from movement of wary strain. It was a force of will to push through those doors back into the diner and don her little notepad as she sauntered between the tables to make sure everyone in her block of tables was attended to.

She hated her job, and she knew it with a burning passion, but it kept her paid enough to afford to live (with the help of a roommate), even if living meant she was just to come back another day to toil nigh-thanklessly at a job even her managers looked down at her for having. Most customers were rude, some entitled, some outright hateful, and almost every day was a bad day for her Manager-on-Duty and fellow employee (unless it was Maxie).

But every once in a while, she got a customer like Margaret. And that made all the difference.