Purest Fiction: She Could Write Here
Purest Fiction: She Could Write Here
When the doors closed at ten, the refugee writer had no appetite.
The waste of food appalled her. The slop bin on her cart swam with flat soda, cold coffee, strands of spaghetti, and cigarette ashes. So many customers chose the triple bacon cheeseburger the author was sure the odor in the apartment stairwell would be a living, breathing thing.
“Hey, bus girl, ya did a good job tonight.” Mavis nodded as she swiped the day’s entries from the chalkboard. “I never did hear your name. Did Bill give you your share of his tips?”