Cracked and Dry and Sore : 10.26.03 @ 7:13 pm

It's only ten.
My hands are cracked and dry and sore.
The lotion just greases them, making it easier to spill coffee on my poor hands.
And I do.
Again.
And again.
My fingers feel scaly as I rinse them under cold water.
Sandpaper.

It�s only twelve. The bumbling idiot of a borrowed partner puts espresso in the Carmel Apple Cider. I snap at her, for once without feeling guilty.
This is a Carmel Apple Cider
(like it says right on the cup).
She stares at it dumbly as the line of drinks continues to grow.
Ten.
Sixteen.
Well remake it!
The drinks never end. My mind narrows and eliminates everything but the need to get the task at hand done.
Syrup. Shots. Milk. No foam. Cap.

It�s only two.
The other borrowed partner has a nice ass.
I can�t help but notice as I lazily sip my water. Curved just right, flattered by her just-right black dress pants. Her shirt has a slit in the back and I can see the hollow of her back as she reaches for the soy. Her white shirt tightens around her chest as she does so.
Guilt. Objectifying female body parts. Bad Feminist.
I look away.

It�s only three thirty.
My four inch not tomato pulled chicken breast sandwich from Chicken Out gets shorter every time.
P___�s here, and I catch him checking out the girl�s ass as well. I grin at him, and he reflects my grin - a typical guy smile that deepens the tinge of guilt.

It�s only five thirty.
I�m sitting out back in the dusk, inhaling cancer and enjoying the dance of shadows along the ladder that goes to the roof. The shadows intrigue me and I wish I had my camera.
A good photographer is never without a camera...

It's only six.
I'm speeding through the parking lot, accelerating to make the green light. I pull into the "Do not enter" drive at the bank, swear, and back out... quickly, the hip hop blaring.
I'm such a rebel. Drive badly. Drive fast. Blare the music. Fuck them all.
I pull up to the ATM and make a face at the machine when it doesn't give me the receipt I asked for... I hope the camera caught that...
I gas it out the parking lot... putting my money away while waiting at the light.
I'll put next week's tips in the bank, I tell myself.
Like I do every time I withdraw money from my account.

It�s only seven.
My hands are cracked and dry and sore.
They feel like sandpaper against my skin.
Lotion doesn�t help, it just makes the keys greasy.

/A

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