Is it smokey in here?
I swear my eyes are burning,

like the scars on my hands,
the scorching oven and pans,
singes and melts my skin
together like forming glass from sands.

THE PHONE!

Is ringing -- go ahead and grab it.

What can I get you today?
No ma’am, No ma’am,
I am sorry ma’am.

The customer is always right.

THE OVEN!

Broke again. It always does. Use the bottom not the top.

Perhaps it overheated?
But of all times, why now?
We are so behind.

Over an hour wait time, let them know.

I am so sorry for the wait sir, have a nice day.

The oven is backing up, come back to help cut.

UNDERCOOKED!

Push it back for a minute.

How many people are waiting out front?

You can sweep now, we got it from here.

THE PHONE!

Thank you for calling, how may I help you?
Yes, wait time is back to 40 minutes.
Yes Ma’am, no problem.
See you then.

* * *

8:06

the rush dismissed.

My hands hurt.

I look at my mangled hands
and I laugh.

We laugh together, as we always do after nights like these. We
compare battle wounds; burns and scars. We
appreciate the product, beautifully fresh and vibrant with color, and
press the dough slowly this time, letting the yeast fill our noses,
placing each ingredient purposefully without the pressure clawing at our backs.

It is finally quiet.

We laugh about the unreliable oven,
the stress,
the indignant customers.

We laugh. We smile.

See you guys tomorrow.