“You don't have any room to talk.”

Melissa wiped a thick layer of makeup from her lips, cheeks, and eyelids. The clock on the microwave read 2:26 am, but it was always set about fourteen minutes fast in an attempt to get Mel out the door on time for class or work or a date.

Mel's roommate, Janet – perched on a bar stool at the counter between the kitchenette and the living room – warmed her hands around a mug of chai tea while watching Mel eradicate the evidence of her night out. The lipstick had already been smudged before she climbed the three flights of stairs to their tiny apartment, and now she worked to remove the rest of it.

No matter how quiet she was when she returned home, Mel couldn't help waking her light-sleeping friend. And even though she told Janet it was “your own damn problem” that she didn't sleep well because she was “worried”, the reality was that Janet's anxiety did cause Mel a fair amount of guilt.

Guilt which had – lately – led to a regular lashing out at Janet's intrusive questions. This nightly bickering was becoming a regular routine.

“What do you mean when you say I don't have any room to talk?” Janet asked, shifting on the hard seat of the stool. Her body ached from another double shift at the diner. She was always slow to speak, and had taken her time before responding to the night's opening salvo.

Mel tossed another cotton ball in the pile accumulating next to the make up mirror propped up against the toaster oven. Janet would have to move the mirror and cotton balls out of her way in a few hours to toast her morning bagel.

“I'll tell you what I mean,” Mel said, examining herself in the mirror, not yet satisfied she had accomplished her task, and not yet ready to start the ritual program of cleansing, exfoliating, and moisturizing required to counteract the abuse of the thick makeup and smoke. “In three hours, you'll leave here in your little yellow Waffle House uniform, and spend eight hours doing the same thing I was doing tonight.”

Janet replied quickly this time, though her words were no less well-considered. “I am a waitress, Mel. You are a whore.”

It was the first time Janet had put that sentiment into words, and Melissa found it odd that it stung less to hear it than she imagined it would.

“It started with Rob,” Janet continued, her face slowly reddening as she spoke. “He was a nice enough guy, I guess, and a smart businessman. He was obviously getting a return on his investment when he flew you to New York, bought you those designer clothes and shoes that cost more than our rent. And then let you have custody of that Lexus he told his wife he had sold.”

“I thought,” Mel offered weakly, “he would leave her. Eventually.”

“And what about Jason? Or Curt? Or Andrew?” Janet's hands were shaking to the point she had to put her mug down for fear of spilling the hot liquid. A mess she'd have to clean up. “Each one richer, and older, and even more married than the one before. Each one giving you the things you want in exchange for you providing them with something they want.”

Mel stared at Janet, taken aback by the forcefulness of her quiet friend's words.

“I put in eight hours on my feet, sometimes more, working every day. Two jobs to pay my half of the rent, take two classes at the Tech, and buy some food and gas. And occasionally I'll have enough left over at the end of the month to go to Wal Mart and stock up on Chinese-made clothes to get me through another season. You really want to compare that to the five, maybe ten, minutes of effort you put in at the end of one of your dates?”

Mel broke her stare, and returned to gaze at herself in the mirror. She uncapped the cleansing gel, squeezed out a quarter-sized glob, and began to apply it to her face. She let the silence lengthen before she responded.

“Just what would I see,” she said, “if I spent the eight hours with you in that greasy yellow box out by the interstate? I know what I'd see, because I've watched you. You're – by far – the cutest waitress working there, and you use that to your advantage. You smile, you laugh, you bat those big brown eyes, and giggle at trucker's jokes that aren't even remotely funny. You serve up that food with a double-order of energy and a side of pep.”

Janet started to protest and Melissa cut her off. “It goes beyond just being polite and serving the food promptly. I've watched you fix your lip gloss in between the breakfast rush and the beginning of lunch. I've watched you wink and smile at a joke I know you found offensive. I've watched you tolerate the ogling stare that you'd normally respond to with a harsh look and an impolite word or two. I've even seen you flirt with men who you'd classify as too old, too blue-collared, or too married under any other circumstance.”

“There's a big difference,” Janet said.

“You're right,” Mel replied. “You degrade yourself for a two dollar tip.”

Mel picked up her facial supplies and headed toward her room, leaving Janet alone on the stool with a now-tepid mug of tea.

“By the way,” she said over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her, “my half of the rent is on the table next to the door.”