Francie peels off the plastic gloves, washes the fat that finds its way into them off her hands and changes into a t-shirt that doesn’t mark her as a burger flipper. This routine takes five minutes out of her thirty-minute break. Instead of eating the lunch provided, she goes to the deli around the corner.
As a child, she dreamt she’d run a place like this one day – flipping burgers was supposed to be temporary.
The owner greets her with a real smile.
If she didn’t reek of frying oil, Francie’d ask if she could wipe tables for her.