Your name is Santana Lopez, and you're about to break.

As the last customer turns their back, you wipe the smile off your face. It's fake, like everything about this job – fake smile, fake enthusiasm and fake boobs, all so you can sell some glorified fake tan for a price you wish you were making up. It's pathetic, and you can't believe anyone is stupid enough to buy it. Right now, they're not – it's just you and the plastic, shiny under fluorescent lights.

As good a time as any to go catch a bite to eat.

You head up the counter to your shiftmate. There's not a customer in sight here either, but she's still smiling at no-one, her eyes unfocussed.

"Hey, Georgina of the Jungle."

She doesn't respond.

"Queen of the Gophers. Hello? Earth to Planet Narcolepsy?"

You give up.

"Jade," you say, as loudly as you can. She starts, and you'd say she looks confused but who the fuck can tell the difference with her?

"I'm going on break."

"Um... oh, right! Okay!"

You turn away before you can catch sight of her smile, but just the sound of it is enough to make you wish there was a faster way of ripping off your uniform and getting back into human clothes.

You storm out of the locker room without a backwards glance, but as you cross the second floor of the 99.9% torture-and-despair hellhole which is Skaia, you can't help but relax. You always do when you get close to her. She's the 0.1% which is keeping you in this place, and as you see her finish with a customer, look up and smile back, your heart does something weird in your chest which is too much of a cliché for you to ever admit to.

"Brit. Dinnertime."

"Just let me get changed."

She leans over the desk and kisses you, and just a peck on the cheek makes you feel stupidly fuzzy inside, like a bowl full of kittens dyed pink by some tween bored crazy in the suburbs.

But then she disappears into the breakroom, you turn around, and the kittens are burnt away by a red-hot ball of anger. You stride forwards.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She's looking at the ground, but you know it's her.

"Hey, Rochelle, or whatever your name was. I know you're new in town, but this is my patch, and you need to gee tee eff oh."

"Excuse me?"

"You see, Minimix, back in Smallville, Nowhere, being neighbours probably means baking pie or going carolling or something equally twee and cosy, but around here it means jack squat. And while you and your precious boyfriend Captain Pennyfarthing were stashing the enormous hoard of chipmunk fur you smuggle around on top of your head, one of you managed to back your fat ass into my windchimes, so now I'm going to need you to get the fuck out of my store and head right on back to Ohio."

"But – what did I -?"

"Ready!" Brit reappears, beaming – but the smile's at much in the direction of the stuttering bumpkiness as it is at you.

"Oh, you met Rachel! She just started on my shift!"

You turn to Brittany and force a smile. "Really? I heard she was just about to quit."

"I'm so, so sorry, we didn't mean to cause any damage -"

"What do you mean? Did you break something? Because they don't make you quit, you just have to buy cheaper cereal."

You realise you've managed to confuse her. "No, Brit. This is the girl who broke the pretty windchime you gave me."

"Oh." She looks sadly at Rachel. "I hope you get your Lucky Charms back soon."

Rachel just stares at the pair of you.

"Excuse me," you say after a moment. "Do you have some kind of problem?"

"No!" she yelps. "Goodness, no, I just –"

"Because if you have a problem with Brit here, I am going to have to show you how we do things downtown."

Rachel takes a step back.

"I – please don't."

"Come on." Brit takes your hand, and you look around at her hopeful face. "You said we could get pie today."

You glance back at Rachel, and the sight of her still makes you stomach churn, but Brit is linking her arm through yours and pulling you away.

"Rach is really nice," she says. "I hope she doesn't have to quit. She must really like the little marshmallows."

You sigh.

"She won't have to quit," you reassure her. "I just forgot how it worked. When you get back, make sure you set her straight."

When you get outside, the sky is dark, but the streets are full of people – it's the evening rush, and the post-Christmas sales are still drawing waves of cheapskate locals among the ever-present tide of slack-jawed gawkers. You try your hardest to ignore the crowd and shove forward, but Brittany lets go of your arm and when you turn back she's drifting effortlessly in the wrong direction.

You push your way after her, but by the time you catch up it's because she's stopped, standing enthralled in front of some street performer. You've seen better. He's juggling three clubs which aren't even on fire, and the most notable thing about him is the clown facepaint. Apparently, the costume doesn't extend past that, because his hair belongs on a drag act and his outfit could only be labelled "sleepwear."

"Hey my starry eyed sister," he says to Brit. "How's about you up and help a motherfucker find some chill?"

It's no wonder even the most brainless of the tourists are giving him a wide berth, but you can see Brit looking helpful and you know the only reason she hasn't emptied her purse already is because she doesn't realise "chill" means "drug money" rather than "directions to somewhere draughty."

"Come on," you say fast, pulling her away from the stoner manchild as quick as you can. "I thought you said you wanted pie."

"Can't I -?"

The crowd drowns out most of her question, but you shake your head anyway, and don't let go of her again until he's long out of sight, and you're almost at the diner.

P&D's – or the Prospit and Derse diner, if you're going by the neon sign out front – is quite possibly the ugliest place you have ever been inside. The interior design was inspired by the unholy offspring of bling with goth chic; you'd say they'd picked up the wrong paint cans by accident if the servers weren't dressed to match. But whether it's a lame attempt at seventies retro or the work of a serial killer targeting colour theorists, it's walking distance from Skaia and Brit likes the pie, so you wind up here more often than not.

When you walk inside, the place is half-empty, and there's jazz playing quietly in the background. [Miles Davis - Summertime] You know the waitress by sight, but that's not so much a mark of loyalty as it is that she's a walking epilepsy warning who laughs like a hyena doing body shots. But hey, other people stopped being your problem fifteen minutes ago, and you're not about to make small talk.

"A cheeseburger and small fries, with Diet Coke and a lemonade, plus two slices of pie."

She doesn't bother writing it down, just walks to the kitchen window: "A four, a thirteen and two Crocker specials."

"Coming right up."

She heads to the counter to get your drinks, out of your eye line, and suddenly you don't have an excuse to avoid Brittany's gaze.

"What?" you ask, but you already know what she'll say.

"You need to eat something," she tells you. "You must be starving, and I don't want Bono to write a song about you because I don't think he has any eyes."

"I'm having pie," you say. If only because you've had that argument before and lost and today you can't, today you're too fucking tired.

"You can't only eat pie. You know that. Remember that time I tried?"

You do, and you can half smile about it now even though it terrified you at the time to see her half-crazed on sugar and malnutrition.

"I'll have some fries too." Because that works, just like it always has. You order it every time, no matter what Brit says: a cheeseburger, small fries and two drinks, coming in just far enough under budget that you can afford pie twice a week if you turn the heating off early and rely on one another to stay warm.

Brit looks serious. You've never known how she can always tell what you're thinking.

"Don't worry, Santana. It will all work out."

"I know it will." You'll make sure of it.

Your drinks arrive, and you intend to make yours last, but Brit catches your eye and says "race you!" and you wind up gulping it all down at once in the rush to victory. You're gasping for breath, and Brit is giggling so hard she's threatening to snort her lemonade, and as she starts telling you about Rachel's first day and how she was wearing a sweater with a kitten on it and Brit had a cat once but she thought it might be psychic because it always knew when she was drinking milk, the pangs in your stomach start to fade.

The food only takes five minutes to arrive, which probably means they were expecting you. That thought turns your chest to granite, but the waitress just tells you the pie will be ten more minutes and goes back to gossiping with her colleague, an Asian girl throwing heavily eyelinered glances at the punk wannabe clearing tables. No-one is so much as looking in your direction, and you let your fists uncurl.

Brit wolfs down her burger like she hasn't eaten in weeks. While you watch her, you toy with a French fry and wish you'd sacrificed your earlier victory for a few sips of Coke left over.

"Hey." You didn't notice Brit putting the burger down, but it's on the plate and she's reaching over to take the fry from you.

"Open up." You sigh, but obey, and she places the fry in your mouth. You weren't really intending to eat it, but you chew dutifully. She picks up another.

"Brit –"

She cuts you off with the second fry, and you swallow before continuing.

"What are you doing?"

"You need to eat something." She keeps feeding them to you, one by one, almost too fast for you to eat.

"Slow down!" You pick one up yourself and place it to her lips, only to snatch your fingers away as her teeth snap around it. "Hey!"

Your complaint only results in another onslaught, and you have no choice left but to retaliate, and you're having a food fight like you're half your age, stuffing as many fries as you can in her mouth while trying to defend your own. It's only when you manage to lick one of her fingers and make her squeal that you remember where you are. You're in public. People can see you.

You look around quickly. The other customers are focussed on their own tables, and the waitresses are still in a gossipy huddle at the counter. No-one is looking your way. You tell yourself to relax, but the laughter has already died, and Brit is watching you with wide eyes.

"What's gotten into you today?" you ask.

"I'm worried about you."

Your heart cracks. "You don't have to –"

"I want to!" She reaches across the table and takes your hand. You notice that all the fries are gone. "You're always worrying about me instead of thinking about yourself. You need someone to take care of you sometimes."

You give her hand a squeeze before letting go.

"You'd better hurry up with that burger. The pie must be nearly here."

It's not a lie; she's still chewing the last bite when the waitress brings over two plates. You leave yours and wait for her to be done.

"Is it good?" she asks you.

"Try it."

She does, eyes closed in reverence as she wraps her lips around the fork. She keeps them shut, closed off in her own blissful bubble of experience, and you can do nothing but stare at her until she opens her eyes and beams at you.

"It's wonderful!"

Only then do you take a bite. It's blueberry today, hot from the oven and topped with cream. Finally, the hunger inside you is gone, and all that's left is you and the pie and Brittany with her lips stained mauve.

But it can't last. You only get an hour's break before you have to get back, and by the time the pie is finished you're already late. You leave the money without bothering to ask for the bill – you know the exact amount – and head out the door. As you turn to check Brittany's with you, she slips her hand into yours and whispers, "don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

The two of you rush back, half-running to make time, pulling each other through the thinning crowds, and all you can do is wish that you had five more minutes together – but you don't, your break is already officially over, and you're living on time you can't afford to borrow.

You don't get to kiss her more than once before you say goodbye.

You pass Jade at the counter; she smiles and asks, "nice break?" but you don't bother to reply before ducking back to your locker for your uniform. When you drag the Skaia shirt over your head, you take a deep breath and tell yourself only four more hours.

As you're about to head back out, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

insightfulNonsequitur [IN] began texting salaciousSalome [SS]

IN: miss you already

A smile creeps onto your face, in that scarily genuine way your cheeks have of moving of their own accord. You have to take a moment to get it under control before reapplying your usual Barbie doll blank grin.

After all, there are customers waiting.