Waiting

By: Lauren Spagnoletti

At the end of every night, I peeled off my high-heeled boots and allowed my pulsating feet to expand as they ached with the pleasure of finally being free. My body hurt too, but from hours of darting about the room in an unspoken choreography that you learn from years on the NYC scene. I moved with precision and purpose to the thumping beat of the loud music. Sometimes it was fun. Most times, though, the merciless pace was matched only by the repulsive entitlement of those I encountered. “This is temporary,” I’d remember. Then, “Can I take your order?”