Tonight was my last night at the restaurant.
I look down at my coat again. It’s splattered. But what is it?
Salsa, I decide. I am splattered in salsa.
Ten months ago I wore regular clothes. Now I wear salsa.
I just got an email from my best friend from college. She’s in Boston. She was just in a fashion show and she’s attached pictures. I write back, telling her that I like her hair. Somehow, she’s wearing blue lights in her curly frock of jet-black waves. And cascading to the right of her bare, lean torso, she holds part of her wardrobe — fabulously draped, elegantly ruffled.
It’s ironic. I still smell like squash. I’ll need another bottle of detergent for my checkered pants. And there’s just no telling what’s become of my shoes. They look like black socks, suctioned to my feet from hours and hours of standing.
But we’ve always shared something in common –– Danielle, the French-major-turned-designer and me, the designer-turned-cook. We were never waiting around for something to fall into our laps. We were both curious and passionate in college, bound by a wicked sense of humor and an inexplicable belief that we had something to give.
I have no fabulous proof of my experience at the restaurant, no picture to hang on the wall. Isn’t it funny? The big moments in life never have a soundtrack. They never move in slow motion.
They just pass in real time, without flash photography.