The Last Goddamn Burrito
She only makes eye contact once.
The rest of the time her eyes are anywhere else, but mostly on the door, and I can’t blame her. Aren’t we all watching the door, waiting for the chance to leave, if not for good then for the day? Ready to walk away, to serve our last goddamn burrito and walk out that door into the sunshine or the night air or whatever it is that’s out there? Because whatever’s out there has to be better than this, right? Whatever’s out there has to be more interesting than white or wheat tortilla / black or pinto beans / choice of salsa / guac.
“Have a good one,” she says as she hands me the bag, her eyes on the wall behind my shoulder. Then I walk out that door.