Cracked wooden spoon splintering through the bologna, forget to use a wet sponge to hold the pot- there’s now an angry pink flesh burn ready to accept the customer’s small change.
Stack it up the stairs with full arms of chink clink smash crash, smear the roach-bodied floor with a herb-seasoned red. Instead of getting up, I lay there, on the stairs, made eye contact with the critters under the oven, felt the cool kitchen floor on my cheek, felt the cool pool of grey dishwater soak into my clothes.
“Hello, my name is Annette. You right there?”
Peel myself off the floor.
“I’m from the Council as your local area Food Inspector. Is the boss around?”
I’ll most certainly be on the look-out for a new job.