𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 '𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕.

Milagros is not let in through the front door. Of course not - the front door is reserved for family, friends and paying customers - not thieving scum. Besides, the boss-man can’t afford for her mug to be caught on any street or local business cameras - not when she’s being dragged in against her will by two of his associates and regular costumers of Shapiro’s Kosher Delicatessen.

No, she is let in through the back door, where she belongs, into the dimly-lit corridor behind the deli. There, her captors stall a short moment by a door marked OFFICE, where one peeks his head through the door and inquires with the small man sat behind the desk in a foreign language.

The man behind the desk: lean, dark-haired and wildly unremarkable save for the thick, black-rimmed glasses perched atop his nose, gives the question brief consideration as he surveys the struggling young woman with evident indifference. Sighing with despair as he leans back in his worn leather chair, he juts his chin towards the corridor. “Take her to the locker.”

call her crazy, or perhaps just exhausted, but milagros sees little need for the heavy-handed tactics. the unnamed goons twisting her arms had picked her up during the wee hours of the night, when she’d been clad in nothing but cheetah-print biker shorts, a black bralette, and a pair of bunny slippers. she’d made little effort to resist their dramatic overtures - in fact, she recalls muttering only three words as she dropped the spatula she’d been using to make fried eggs : ❛ well, fuck me. ❜

she therefore finds it in herself to laugh - a hoarse, panicked sound, more of a scoff, really - when the strange man behind the desk in this odd little building sentences her to her holding cell. ❛ the locker ? is that how you make your money here ? nice old lady comes in ; you sell her a hand ‘n a foot sandwich ? ❜ the goon on her right twists her arm harder. she grits her teeth, shoots him a look, but makes not a sound of complaint. as they begin to drag her away, she cranes her neck backward toward who she now assumes to be the head honcho, hoping to make a more convincing appeal.

❛ no, no, no. you got the wrong guy. ❜ milagros repositions herself on the nightclub couch so that her back is to christopher. without the thumping music pulsing in the background, they would both hear the hideous squeak of her pleather mini-skirt against the pleather upholstery. for the second time that night, she lifts up her hair to show him her tattoo of the archangel michael wielding his flaming sword, located at the base of her neck. ❛ michael is the warrior. christopher is the patron saint of travelers. truckers, bikers — you know, anybody that goes fuckin’ places. ❜

another lustful night has given way to morning at solid gold gentlemen's club. when milagros leaves the locker room, she is clad in a band tee and biker shorts, her blown-out hair and smoky makeup the only evidence that she once twirled upon the stage. the floor is empty save for a few of the big-wigs speaking furtively with a couple of unknowns in suits. exhausted after her shift, she tries not to pay it mind, but cannot help but notice that the unfamiliar men bear a resemblance to the wiseguys that occasionally drive through her brooklyn neighborhood.

it’s when she steps outside that she is confronted with a sudden dose of panic. for there, speaking on her cellphone under the glow of neon lights, is a middle-aged woman with the self-assured look of a born business woman. milagros’ eyes search her face through the darkness in an attempt to discern whether she’s seen her here before : in the back office, perhaps, or in the parking lot next to the boss’s car. but nothing sparks her recollection.

the food industry is a day-to-day gamble. milagros never knows what the customers will look like when she clocks in for a shift at mo’s ; never knows how many of them will break her balls just because someone else made them feel powerless somewhere in the slog of their own routine. unfortunately, this turns out to be one of the harder evenings, and by the end of it she’s on edge. enough so that she offers another waitress — jack is her name — a ride home, more for her own sanity than her coworker’s.

rain is coming down in sheets by the time milagros tears out of the parking lot with jack in tow. bob seger is blasting from the car’s cheap stereo system, and from the way they’re jiggling, you’d guess the dice hanging from the mirror were dancing to the music. for a moment that’s the extent of the activity in the vehicle : milagros is silent, one hand gripping the wheel and the other providing an acrylic nail for her to nibble on. eventually, though, she makes an effort to break through the tension that’s spilled over from her shift.

❛ i’m sorry. i shouldn’t stare. ❜ the moment tomás catches her in the act, milagros steers her gaze away from the scarring she’d noticed on his right hand. her voice is softer than usual ; the small smile on her face veers into shyness. ❛ people tell me i got no manners. i guess they’re right. ❜ it’s a slight exaggeration - she ought to be referring to her brother in the singular form. for her purposes, though, it will do.

the most obvious perk of working at mo’s is the complimentary food. it keeps milagros coming back more than the flexible scheduling, perhaps even more than the paychecks, which are hefty enough once she factors in dinner-rush tips. tonight, at the park a few blocks from the diner, she chows on a corned beef on rye. occasionally,  she also picks at the fries bonnie still has in her styrofoam takeout box. it’s a bold move, considering the two have only partaken in this post-shift ritual a few times, but milagros is nothing if not bold.

❛ i hope you like breakfast food. all i got are leftovers. ❜ milagros pulls a paper plate of scrambled eggs and hashbrowns from the microwave, then crosses her cramped kitchen to slide the meal across the table to her guest. elián had dropped him off late in the evening and with little explanation. milagros believes his exact words were, you ain’t gotta fuck ‘em, for chrissakes. just give the man a pillow to lay his head on. and don’t look at me with those crazy eyes !