BURNING PASSION

t the hell is wrong with me? My life has been a disaster lately. Everything feels like a misstep, like a curse hanging over me. It's 3 a.m., the quiet of the night only making everything feel wor

atisfying. My body feels lighter, the tension from the night before slipping away in the warmth of the new day. I stand up, rubbing my eyes, and take in the room around me. It's a mess, but it's mine. There's a sense of comfort in the chaos-at least it's familiar. I take a deep breath and get to work. The laundry pile in the corner stares me down, but it has to be done. I had two jobs before. I worked at a convenience store downtown, and I was a waitress at a nightclub. The job at the convenience store was manageable, but the pay was ridiculously low, barely covering my bills. The shifts there were also inconsistent, and the pay never quite stretched as far as I needed it to. The nightclub job, on the other hand, paid better. The tips were decent, and while the work itself wasn't glamorous, it was enough to keep my head above water-at least that's what I thought. The only problem was, my shifts kept clashing with the convenience store hours. I'd work late at the club, only to be expected at the store early in the morning. The hours were a nightmare, and it started to take a toll on me. After a while, it became impossible to juggle both. I was exhausted, barely getting any sleep, and I was starting to feel the burnout creeping in. I knew something had to be done and that's when I made the decision to quit the convenience store. The pay at the nightclub was better, and I could at least count on the tips to keep me afloat, but I didn't expect how much it would cost me in other ways-like the mental exhaustion from dealing with creepy customers and, of course, Greg, my sleazy boss. Greg. A nightmare in human form. The kind of guy who thinks his gold tooth makes him a smooth operator, when in reality, he's just a walking, talking pervert. He's been like this since the day I started working at the club. The kind of guy who lingers just a little too long at the bar, smiles just a little too creepily, and touches just a little too much. It started off subtle-his wandering eyes, his comments just a bit too suggestive. But then it escalated. One night, I was delivering drinks to one of the VIP tables when I felt a hand on my arm. A hot, clammy hand that wasn't mine. I stiffened instantly. My stomach dropped. It was Greg. Of course, it was Greg. I turned around to give him my signature "don't touch me" glare, but he just grinned, his yellowed gold tooth flashing at me like some grotesque beacon. "You're looking fine tonight, Bella," he said, his breath reeking of cheap liquor. "How 'bout you and me grab a drink, huh? Get to know each other better." I could feel my face go stone cold. "Don't touch me," I said, my voice low and sharp. But that didn't stop him. The next thing I knew, his hand was sliding down my arm, squeezing a little too hard. Big mistake. Without thinking, I shoved him away. And when I say shove, I mean I gave him a good shove-hard enough to send him stumbling backward. His eyes went wide with shock as he lost his balance and fell, arms flailing like a ragdoll. And then, as if the universe had a cruel sense of humor, his gold tooth flew out of his mouth, pinging across the floor and landing with a satisfying clink. I stood there for a moment, blinking in disbelief. Did I just cause this grown man to lose his tooth? I couldn't help it-I let out a quiet laugh. It was the absurdity of it. Here was this arrogant, greasy man, so sure of himself, reduced to fumbling for his shiny tooth on the club floor. But that was the