Chips N Salsa

We watched the time wane from inside the

kitchen, surrounded by Spanish slang and

the smell of freshly cooked tortillas,

anxiously awaiting the words “You’re cut”

to fall out of our manager’s mouth. We

exhale, but take no time to revel in the

relief, our uniforms stripped as we float

past testy customers, no longer our

concern. The burn of alcohol greets us at

home, the bass buzzing off the walls, our

energy picking up, never aligned with the

sun, which sinks as we rise. Bewitched by

the night we howl at the moon past the

closing of any bar, until the sun’s rise and

we find ourselves in the kitchen once

again, our heavy heads glued to the

counter, begging for sleep, picturing

ourselves tucked under the warmth of

covers in a cloud of pot smoke, a fantasy

to be interrupted by our manager’s

thunderous footsteps, who surely has come

to threaten our job once again, a tired

routine at this point, as she walks in and

snaps “Table two needs chips and salsa!”