From the pages of the throbbing knees. From the pages of the cramped hands. From the pages of the Indian pale ale at three in the afternoon. From the pages of the outdoor patio. From the pages of the new line cook barely over the age of twenty four you'd guess by the name of Dallas you call her Texas and do not dare tell her her Cuban sandwiches take longer than the average Cuban sandwich because she is nice and you like her and she's brand new and you figure they can wait because you are wearing a hot pink bra under your cotton weave and it is cutting you in half but it is worth it for the extra single dollar that you will keep to every five company dollar. From the pages of very nice company. From the pages of wonder if Tim still checks your blog. From the pages of clairvoyant readings in girl's town. from the pages of too much television. From the pages of permanently lost feelings in the tips of your toes numb forever in twelve dollar keds from standing too early too late. From the jalapeno pepper juice misting ghost buster green from the squeaky power of your nozzle of your horse of you field its like plowing a field between the sink and the cotton weave of your brown t-shirt. For all the times people have said there's nobody like you. For all the times you wanted an older brother. Brother. Brother. Brother. From the pages of work is good for you.
From the pages of it doesn't matter what the woman said. From the pages of it doesn't matter how she said it, doesn't matter what the co-worker said in consolation or defense.
What matters on Wednesday is that nobody in the service industry gets paid enough. Nobody. Nothing. Is. Compensated. Nothing.
And I know that I am awkward. I know that I get tongue tied and shy. I know that I shut down. I know that in some certain ways I am just not smart.
But, I am not mean. I have never been cruel to a stranger. Never.
~Skin & Toast & Heat & Rash