09.36pm
Aug 28, 2017 · 2 min read
The steam whooshed pleasingly.
Hector felt a certain pleasure about the impending act of smoothing out his shirt. The way the creases gave way to sharp lines. Harmonious and pure.
All day he’d been wearing a t-shirt — his uniform at the Mac-N-Grill. He was certain than none of his co-workers ever put on a dress shirt, not even to go out, not even on dates. Most of them showed up to work in their uniform and left with it on, splattered with tiny droplets of grease and the heavy smell of flash fried lunches and microwaved sides. Oddly, Hector always noticed it was the…

