Saturday June 23, 2017
Writing Down the Bones
Alanna smiles without her lips. Her cheeks smile. Her eyes smile. But her lips stay a straight line, like, “What? I don’t have to work to let you know I’m chill.” I notice this the first time we work together. It’s brunch and we’re slammed. “In the weeds” is what Alanna calls it, and she’s worked at a lot of places so I’m going to trust her on this. We have a good rhythm together – pouring orange juices, steaming milk, plopping eighteen dollar eggs down in front of very alien-like women who eat and eat but remain exceptionally trim. “Blow,” says Alanna, as I make eyes about an extra side of whipped cream. When we’re doing roll ups just after five o’clock Alanna tells me she already counted her tips and she made almost three hundred dollars.