By the time Millie and Clara finished, the sun was gone, the sky fading to pink and gold. They trudged inside, sweaty and sore, and dropped onto the worn bench in the staff lounge.
Clara rubbed her wrist and sighed. “Bet some rich guy’s out there right now, feet up, sipping something fancy while we were out scrubbing bird crap.”
Millie snorted. “Fancy? Try imported wine on a private jet.”
Clara grinned. “Right. Probably complaining the caviar’s not cold enough.”
“Oh, the tragedy,” Millie said. “I found a dead wasp in my bra at lunch.”
Clara burst out laughing. “We should bill them for emotional damage.”
“I’ll put it under ‘therapy fund,’ right after ‘blisters’ and ‘sunburn.’”
Their laughter filled the room, easing the day’s ache for a moment.
Eventually, they shuffled into the kitc
