The night passes in a blur of customers and dishes and sandwiches. By the time Deon locks the doors a little after nine, I’m exhausted. My feet are killing me, my legs hurt, my shoulders and back are tense from all the work…who would think running a deli could be so much work? My arms ache from mopping the floor. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this summer. Already I’m thinking about going home and collapsing on my bed and just sleeping until it’s time to come back here tomorrow. And I stink, a miasma of grease and frying meat and burnt bread that clings to me like a cloud of bees, humming and buzzing around my nose until my head throbs with a steady rhythm. I just want to leave already.
Deon is in the back room, washing the rest of the dishes before we go, and Joe’s scraping the g
