4:37

And then she looked at me, those eyes like hardened gems, a blue like the ocean coves I’ve seen on the postcards that my dad would send to me when he was on the road. Hawaii, Puerto Rico, Bali and even when he visited Omaha and thought it would be funny to send one of a surfer riding a field of corn. It was 4:37 and it was December, so the light from the street was pulling itself back between the buildings and the night was sifting its way down Carver and would be wrapping the bar soon enough.

I pushed the empty I’d had in front of me towards the corner of the table, my attempt to get the waitress's attention. I could hear the heavy tin thumps of pans being dropped into the big sinks and the rattle of Bad Bunny, pushing out through the two grim little speakers that they had nailed up over the mirrors. That meant Robbie was working the grills. That meant that everyone’s burgers would be undercooked. “Freddy, we got any more Mayo? If so bring it from the walk-in, stuff out here’s turned snot yellow”.

Yep, Carlos and his Dominican rhythm, that whip of thunder from the belly of the kitchen. I looked back her way, watched her reach into her pocket and pull out an orange Bic, snapping back on the roller to light the cigarette she bit between her lips. She pulled back hard on the filter, her left eye going all Captain Hook and let the smoke soak into her deep on the inside, before blowing it out in a thick grey cloud. Smelled like my Aunt Jem’s old Buick, 43 years of two packs-a-day and just about the worst tropical island air freshener you’ve ever smelled.