“How do you sleep at night?” Sharon said, not looking up from her self-appointed task of doing the dishes. Pilar obviously hadn’t done them in several weeks from the amount of food caked into concrete on the edges. After a twenty-minute soak, Sharon had managed to get some of them clean.
“The traffic, darling?” Pilar was breezy, belying the lines of exhaustion in her mouth, the circles under her eyes. Her boss—at her waitressing gig—had called first thing that morning, insisting that Pilar pick up a double-shift since several of her co-workers had gone out to a party the previous evening and were too coked out to actually show up. At least that was the gist of what Sharon gathered from the conversation before Pilar had slipped out the door, wearing a shabby uniform. “You get used to it.”
