23
Abby couldn’t remember the last time her feet had ached like they did tonight. As she raced around the small diner in the tacky brown polyester dress that was the uniform for all the waitresses, she could feel the run in her hose sliding up the back of her leg. A large man with a dark mustache waved her over. She carried the coffee pot with her, and he lifted his cup.
“Fill it up,” he said.
She poured coffee just as she felt his hand on her ass. She jumped and smacked his hand away.
“Aw, come on, honey,” he said.
It made her ill, being pawed at, but at the same time, she couldn’t cause a scene or she’d lose her job, so she turned and walked away. She was so tired of these scumbags who seemed to think they could touch her whenever they wanted: a slip of a hand against her breast as
