Kaylee Lowe

I’m calling for fries
over the counter full
of fried food and grease
while the chefs ignore me.
Someone taps me twice
on the shoulder as tears salt 
my lips. “What?” I snap, 
searching for a coworker’s face. 
The old woman from my table 
takes a step back. “Excuse me?” 
she says, her wrinkles contorting. 
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I thought 
you were my coworker” I try
to explain. “The women’s restroom
is out of toilet paper.” She walks 
off to clear her plate. I let one more
drop roll down my cheek as I say 
goodbye to any chance at a tip
and turn back to face the head chef. 
“How hard is it to give me some damn
fries?” I continue yelling. When I clock 
out that night I write in my diary. 
I can’t remember one detail of my night 
that doesn’t erase me.

The ticket stabber is over-
flowing on hour ten of my shift. 
“¡Vamos pendeja, vamos!” Miguel
yells over the counter. I flip off 
the food heater and stick three
ice cubes down my bra, then stack 
table 34’s plates on my left arm. 
“Lex, I need a follow” she runs 
over and grabs the last basket of 
chili cheese tots. An hour later, 
the counter is empty and wiped
clean of grease. I restock sauces in
the walk-in and sit down for the first
time today. I clock out at 10:45, say 
my rounds of “Goodnight” to the last 
standing servers. Pepper spray clutch
in hand, I fumble for my keys in the dim 
parking lot. The silence in the passenger
seat is my favorite part of a double-day.
I pull into the gravel driveway, frowning
at the orange-lit room next to mine. 
I knock twice on the purple door so 
my baby sister knows it’s just me.
“Can you read me a bedtime story?”