10 AM

10 AM.

The heavy white door of the back entrance to the kitchen is unlocked but not open. Sally pulls it open with her last breath after her cigarette which she has just flicked off somewhere behind her.

The kitchen is quiet like a temple.

The stainless steel shines like new. The pilots are lit. Sally pushes through the swinging door to clock in on the front of house POS. The wood fire oven is still cold, calm.

Sally goes to the bathroom in the back. There are no reservation tables set up yet. The sunlight fades in from the front windows. The open sign is not yet on.

She puts her hair up, pops a pill. In the mirror she yawns. Her hands are red and calloused as she washes them.

Back in the kitchen, she flips on the grill lights and fans. Sets up her cutting board. Finds her favorite knife, feels the blade against her index finger. It’s sharp enough. It’s now 10:08 AM. Laughter moves in from outside the back door.

It’s a Monday morning.

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