Watch how slowly Linda eats, like each bite of food has said
something bad about her children. Lunch starts at noon and she’s in the
cafeteria at 12:03. 12:04 if the elevator is slow, or someone tries to stop her
to talk. There is only one thing that passes her standards: the cobb salad with
raspberry vinaigrette (instead of ranch) and ham on the side. Linda has few
pleasures in life and this isn’t one.
Miguel stares, a mixture of attraction and disgust visible
on his face. He wouldn’t use the word “pretty” to describe Linda, but Miguel
doesn’t do a lot of describing. Mostly, he does a lot of chopping. The Cobb
Salad comes pre-bagged, but a few other dishes require vague culinary skills.
“Do you think that woman is Latino?” Miguel asks Ken.
Ken thinks and then says “I don’t know… Are you Latino?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. What does that cover exactly?”
“She might be mixed.”
“We’re all mixed, aren’t we?”
A couple chatty middle managers plop trays on the counter,
each with the same thing - a hot dog, macaroni and cheese, chips and a diet
coke.
“Together or separate?” Ken intones.
“Together,” says the one in the sky blue polo. “I got this.”
“Thanks,” says the one in the salmon polo.
“That’ll be $16.85.”
When they leave, Miguel starts again. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About that woman.”
“I don’t know if we're allowed to talk about this.”
