“Move, trash,” he mutters under his breath when he shoulders past. “If Diego catches you digging through plates again, you’re fired tonight.”
You wait for the old Nayeli to rise.
You wait for the woman who once made a resident physician cry in an ER hallway after he snapped at a patient’s mother. You wait for the woman who once told a drunk investor at your father’s Christmas party that money could rent a tuxedo but it could not purchase class. You wait for her to lift her chin, peel off those gloves, and cut the waiter in half with one sentence.
She does not.
She bows her head. “Sorry,” she whispers, so softly you only hear it because you are already listening like a man underwater listens for the surface. Then she squeezes the clear plastic bag tighter and keeps cleaning.
