You’re back in the restaurant.
It’s closing time after another long shift.
Bussing the last four-top, you watch your hands (a habit, now). Piling unclean plates and half-empty glasses, they appear smooth—no callouses, oil burns (or fingernails)—they aren’t so much hands as the idea of handling things, which are also just impressions, simulacra of memory: like brush strokes of a painting viewed too close.
But is this enough to wake you up?
There’s the sound of running water, clanging dishes, and whistling—she always whistles, washing dishes—
Read the full story in Issue #13 of Dreamers Creative Writing Magazine