Putting on my face for the day

Racing the clock for second place

 

My skin begs to breathe as I don my denim and velvet,  I want to feel both scratch and soothe

My reflection practices honeyed words- appearances are important

Louie on Demun awaits, irreproachably

 

Family meal is served. Olive oil drips from my bread and unctuously lands on my skirt. 

The stain will never come out.

I guess appearances aren’t too important

 

5 o’clock, customers flood in and scrape their chairs across the floor. The screech lasts only a second before their conversation picks up and I am swept away

“Miss,” he calls out, my smile, without my knowledge, an invitation for stares when his wife isn’t looking, “could we sit over there?”.

Those sought after seats, the sunlit banquette of dreams, “Sorry Sir, they’re reserved”.

“Chica tonta no sabe cómo hacer su trabajo” he says as if I am beyond earshot.

While I take their empty glasses I curse this man for coming to visit.

 

I weave through moving chairs and oncoming plates of food to return glasses to the dish pit. 

Isaac greets me there, starkly lit and face dripping with a slew of sweat and humidity.

The dishwasher cycle takes one minute, just enough time for our quick and dirty daily catch-up.

 

It’s 10 o’clock, call it a night

Denim and velvet stick to my skin as I step into the oppressive dark.