The room was roaring with laughter and glasses clinked cheerily in celebration. Good times spun wildly up to the high ceilings decorated with impressive cream moldings. 

But his crisp white gloves brushed the intricate sauce pattern on a plate as he watched. A grumble stumbled off Angel’s lips and he focused his distant attention back to the array of filled dishes he must manage to balance on his clumsy limbs.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he artfully eliminated the sauce all together with the swift flick of a cloth. He carried the beautiful white plates out to a beautiful white family sitting at a beautiful white table. Their faces were so creamy; he felt waves of disgust and yet frustration all at the same time.
A little girl clapped gleefully at the sight of her enormous steak and french fries. Most of which would be carried away from her minutes later, leaving her tiny belly full. The rest of the family hushed their tones as Angel served them their steaming food. Their eyes fell to the plates and pretended not to pause the conversation.
“I took the liberty of refilling your glasses. There is no charge, it is on me,” Angel explained as he replaced the stale glasses with freshly bubbling new ones.
A man with a chiseled jaw turned to face Angel and smiled vaguely before turning back around to start his meal. The woman next to him did the same only her look was so brief; her eyes only flickered on his.
Angel wore his smile dutifully, although its corners dug ditches in his cheeks and penetrated his freshly shaven skin. He nodded his head before slipping away to the kitchen.
“Angel, bring this to the table under the chandelier.” A plump man  said. He was wrapped in stiff white cloth.
Angel puffed out an exhausted breath and lumbered over to the crisp metal counter where an extravagantly iced cake sat. His elegantly gloved hands plucked it from its resting place. His eyes sunk deeper into his head.
This cake was delivered to the table under the chandelier just as it was told. It was served directly to a wrinkled old man dressed ridiculously in a constricting black suit. His family smiled and serenaded him with wishes.
Angel bit his lip and watched the family tumble over themselves, wallowing in wealth and comfort. After they left, Angel was assigned another neat family. He catered to a group of tight old men after that.
His day was spent serving. Angel took meal orders, drink orders, slightly muffled insults from the corners of people’s mouths, and amounts of ignoring and disrespect no grown man should ever have to swallow.
He finally reached his the paint peeling from his front door after an extensive commute. He took a train, two buses, and walked several blocks. Angel’s feet were aching. The bottoms of his feet felt burned from the rough soles of his shoes.
He opened the door with haste and sucked in a deep breath of poorly heated air before plopping on one of the chairs gathered about the floor.
Their house was a mismatch of whatever somebody grew tired of in their garage or moldy basement. Angel’s wife spent the minute she woke up, at the crack of dawn, to the minute the clock struck six o’clock doing the dirty work for those who could afford not to do it themselves. Sandra scrubbed grimy floors, she washed dirty dishes, she dusted clean pianos, and vacuumed entire mansions on a daily basis. She came home to a messy house, and cleaned some more then.  
But she couldn’t work past six, she would tell the manicured woman standing in the frame of the door. When the woman asked her why, she would stare at her shoes and explain that six is when the daycare closed. The woman would draw in a quick breath and hire her.
She knew they pitied her. The women would sometimes share a few words with her between chores, or leave old chairs outside for Sandra to take home and furnish her cold house with.
Angel knew this. He knew the strain each day would put under each of them. He knew they were short on their rent every month. He knew they were scraping pennies from every angle, job, or corner they could find. And he knew it wasn’t going to get much better.
“How was your day?” Sandra sighed as she sat next to Angel, stroking his matted brown hair.
The words stung in his ears like hornets. Raw, he grabbed a hold of his neck in a drained attempt to relieve the pain.
“It was fine, honey.” His speech was slow and deliberate. He took a breath between words for strength.
She let her limp hand fall onto his shoulder and swirled it around. Every muscle in his face longed to wince in ache, but he smiled instead. Then he rolled his head down and kissed her gentle hand. She smiled too, but sadness crept behind her eyes. She was always thinking; searching for ideas to save them.
Sandra’s tugged on the fingers of Angel’s white gloves, exposing his aching olive skin to the harshness of night. 
“Dinner’s ready, babe,” Sandra murmured, and took a moment before rising out of the chair and shuffling to the kitchen. There, Angel heard her clink some dishes together, and spray some water.
Minutes later, he felt something pierce his arm. He looked over and saw Chili’s bright eyes gazing into his, asking to pass the salt.
They were sitting at the table.
Eating.
But Angel remembered nothing after watching Sandra disappear into the kitchen. He shook his head dismissively, and handed his son the salt.
His daughter watched him, worried about her daddy. His head sunk onto his shoulders and his eyes drooped wearily. Little does he know of what she noticed.
“Daddy! Guess what,” Sancho, Angel’s second son squealed suddenly, “Santa’s gonna get me a Hess Truck this year!”
Sancho’s eyes were glowing with glee. His hope was so obvious and abundant, that it oozed, and Angel imagined himself cleaning it all up Christmas day when the tree sat truckless.
“Really,” Angel began, trying to sound as cheery as he could, “Well, I guess you are a lucky guy.”
But Angel’s skin hung from his cheekbones warily as he said it, counteracting any happiness he was trying to convey.
Sandra looked up from her plate and smiled at Sancho. Her eyes then drifted to Angel the deflated picking at his meal.
“You know, Sancho, Santa gets pretty busy this time of year,” Sandra proposed, gently grabbing hold of her son’s little hand. “Sometimes his mind slips… he… well he can’t always get to every house.” Sandra’s eyes began to dampen. She turned her head to Angel, begging for assistance in the devastating task.
Sancho sat erect in his chair, his smile starting to fade at the understanding of Santa’s difficulties this year. Angel took the last bite of his measly grey meat sitting on the plate, and pushed it away. He paused to gather his thoughts, then impulsively told Sancho he was glad Santa could promise him such a great Christmas gift.
This sent Sancho fleeing from the table in a whirlwind of joy. But it also shot a glare like daggers from Sandra straight to Angel’s defeated expression.
They sat in silence for the remainder of dinner, praying that the rest of their children wouldn’t share the innocent wishes that their parents could not grant.
Sandra climbed into bed a few hours later and watched her husband sit like stone on his side. She followed his blank stare to a hole on the opposite wall. His mouth was a thin white line and his cheeks, empty cups.
“Angel, we are going to be okay. Just don’t worry, baby. Worrying only makes it worse,” Sandra cooed, stretching her arm to the lump in the blanket where his leg wasn’t warm. Angel sucked in another deep breath and let his chest fill up with the chilled night air.
His head turned to the opened window, where the curtains blew mindlessly from the bitter wind. He felt Sandra shiver and felt his own teeth chattering. Every inch of his body screamed for him to shut the window, to spare himself the pain.
But he closed his eyes.

Sandra pulled the blanket closer to her chin. She reached for the lamp, stuck her hand through a wide hole in the shade, and turned out the light.