Cenicienta Story

'Once upon a time there was a rich man whose wife got sick, and when she felt the end was getting nearer, she -'

Sbam.

"Bianca!"

Tump, oh shit!

"No, no no no no..." her arm stretched out to...

Crash.

Coño. Too late, she thought, looking at the shattered mug on the floor, then picking up the book and trying to mop up the pages, now wet and brownish with tea. The first lines hadn't sounded that promising, but all the same...

"Biancaaa! Come here!"

Darn vieja. She would give her a stroke one of these days.

*****

It had become like second nature at this point.

Blanca had been working there for seven years.

They had been seven long, hard years of early morning, late nights (not the good kind), Bianca!s, countless adult diapers, food manias, arguments and diplomacy with irritating daughters, no-microwave Bianca!, boredom, patience, come here Bianca!, I don't like pink, Bianca!, no Spanish here, Bianca!, Bianca, Bianca, Bianca...

Blanca was bored.

To think all her thrills and highs now came from an eighty-five-year-old, she who'd dreamt of living all the life, seeing all the places with her own eyes, meeting all the real people. And after a decade away from the Dominican Republic she'd not even managed to get to New York.

Her vieja was not that bad in the end, probably, and her daughter was not the worst she had seen, maybe; she'd also gotten worse pays and lousier benefits in those other households at first, plus, she'd not even been legal then. But it still didn't change the fact that at times when she started yawning out of nowhere or caught a glimpse of her own cardigan-wearing reflection in a mirror, Blanca felt like she belonged to an old people's home more than Millie.

The book had been ruined, the old lady had bugged her for an hour for the broken china and her eldest had hovered over dinner preparations like an annoying mosquito.

A glimpse to the alarm clock on her bedside table - it was already close to midnight.

A sigh, as she tucked herself in.

Yes. She was ready to forget about another entirely forgettable day.

*****

"What time?"

A stare. "Otra vez?", and she put down the knife on the counter.

The younger woman looked up from her phone and frowned. "I was busy!"

"Yeah, texting with the other airhead."

"Hey!"

"I swear you got the attention span of a two-year-old," Gloria sighed. "Opening's at eight, you can get off at five."

"A'right," the tall girl resumed her writing.

"And you can tell your friend later! Get back out to work, I can hear Zirconia scaring clients from here."

"Yeah, I told you she ain't customer service friendly yet," Flaca pursed her lips.

"You're supposed to teach her. Get. OUT!" Gloria threw a wooden spoon her way.

"Ouch! I'm going, I'm going..." and she went back to the cafeteria.

*****