It’s cold and wet.
The smell of braised meat and stock cooling circulates via forced air.
Cases of juicy, red, ripe strawberries stacked tall begged to be pilfered.
Tears stream while icy condensation drips down the back of my chef’s coat.
Where no one can hear you.
Unless you talk loud enough to hear.
Where we try to make sense of it all.
Where we question our career.
Tears become laughter, laughter turns to game face.
“Thank god you are here,” we say.
With a hug wrapped in desperation we say,
“Thank god for the walk-in.”