Marks Head - Bobbers Serina

The fluorescent light seemed to dim. The fridge hum shifted into a lower, more intimate key.

Today had been a record-breaking shift. A woman had spent eleven minutes explaining why a prawn sandwich was “an existential betrayal of the crustacean.” Serina had bobbed so hard she’d given herself a mild headache. marks head bobbers serina

Gareth’s voice crackled over the headset. “Serina? You there? We’ve got a queue at the wine samples. Need a bobber.” The fluorescent light seemed to dim

“I’m looking for something that’s out of stock.” A woman had spent eleven minutes explaining why

It was absurd. It was a corporate food hall. But his grey eyes held a desperate, fragile truth. He wasn't asking about a sandwich. He was asking her to validate a ghost.

Serina unclipped her name badge. She laid it on the counter next to the eel-less counter. Then she walked into the stockroom, pulled out her phone, and deleted the SerinaDraws app.