...said the fortune cookie to the boy in the faded polo covered in bits of cardboard and styrofoam, the worn sleeves damp from where he wipes his sweat. He stared at the product information card of an alligator onion chopper, which, given his options, was currently the most interesting thing in the small, all-white break room where he ate panda express alone in the basement-level of a Williams-Sonoma. the $10 target watch warned the boy of the coming end of his 30 minutes, when he would return to unboxing cookie sheets and citrus zesters, and carrying espresso machines and the like up 20 stairs to waiting soccer moms. 10 stairs if he skips steps. and maybe, he thought, if there were no more gift wrap requests today, he would have time to cart the kitchenaid 620 and orange juicers to the far remote, and run the trash and broken-down boxes to the dumpsters by the end of his shift.
"Yes, fortune cookie," said the boy as he readjusted his lower-back support belt. "Soon and very soon."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment