The Hostess

I stopped speaking and smiling roughly an hour ago. No, that's not entirely true; when I happen to be standing behind my podium while people are leaving, I manage to grind out a (passably) convincngly cheerful, "Thank you! Have a good night! Take care!" and an automatic smile that, I'm sure, they can't tell from that distance doesn't quite reach my exhausted eyes.

I honestly really want to be more chipper, if just to support my manager who has to be here to close the restaurant, because he's sweet and wonderful and caring and understanding and he pats me on the hip in support when he starts to notice that I'm tired and he sings me Lady Gaga whenever we run into each other in the kitchen.

Every time I walk past the cocktail party with the beautiful, gift-shaped cake, I eye their cake longingly, hope they won't finish it and that they will leave soon and decide not to bring the rest home so that I can have a piece. It hurt me to clear up a plate with a virtually untouched slice on it. Someone took one bite and decided to not have any more; how wasteful! I almost want to pinch off a corner and stick it in my mouth covertly when I get into the kitchen but I don't, because it's not the best of times when it comes to contagious diseases.

I'm so, so tired. My feet hurt so much I'm starting to walk with a swagger that could rival the most hardcore rappers out there. I keep willing people to leave soon so that we can call it a day, but I cringe inwardly at the thought of having to clear up everything for all four of the huge parties going on when they finally, finally go. But I have to keep on chugging because I have goals to reach, places to go, things to do.

Just two more hours...