Heat Wave: Richmond by J.M. Snyder
The call I’ve been waiting for all week long finally comes in at quarter after three on Friday afternoon. Figures. I’m backing out the screen door leading out of the supply room of the Henrico Diner, the grease trap from the grill balanced precariously on a pair of spatulas in my hands, when the iPhone in my pocket vibrates. It startles me so much, I almost drop the trap and stumble down the back step, the hot grease sloshing dangerously close to my dirty apron.
“s**t!” I lean my upper body forward as I jump back, then carefully set the trap down on the ground at my feet. The grease rolls like a brown wave but doesn’t overflow the metal sides of the trap. Thank God, or I’d be here after my shift hosing down the concrete in the late afternoon sun.
Still
