“Izzy! Go home!” Clyde says, clapping me on the shoulder and taking my order pad out of my hands.
“What? Why? Are you firing me? Is this about the coffee filters? I had no idea the box was going to fall apart like that, and I swear only ten of them were damaged. The rest are totally fine!”
My words come out on a rushed exhale of anxious breath and my heart is beating so fast that for a second my vision goes blurry.
It’s been a rough week. On Monday I messed up an order of burgers for a table of vegans who looked like they wanted to forgo their pacifist leanings and kill me with their butterknives when I put meat in front of them. Wednesday, I dropped a box of two hundred coffee filters all over the kitchen floor, which thankfully I had cleaned an hour before, so most were saved due to
