After work I turn the music up to the maximum amount that the TV will allow me. I try to forget every table. How’d I get so lucky, though, to work for the creme-de-la creme of diners in the east end of Ottawa? An institution, really.
I get treated with respect there. I’ve worked enough restaurants to know that this is the golden dayshift I’ve been searching for. I don’t take it for granted. I thank Jesus every day I get to go to work. When I’m not at work, I think about working. I talk about working. Work, to me, is easily the best distraction from my miserable thoughts that I can think of. Art is great and all, but I am consumed in my little job and it really means everything to me.
My foot hurts but the pain makes me alive. Outside looks like a jungle. The vine in the backyard snakes around the fence and the flowers stretch towards the sun.
Meanwhile, at home, my feet are bare and the balcony is hot. The sun makes things sparkle. A guy leaves his number on my car and I tell him I don’t want a boyfriend and I’m asexual. He leaves me alone after that.
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