Javier Vasquez

Twenty-four days.

I rise earlier than the roosters earlier than the bakery delivery vans before the rats, in the alley begin their daily disputes.

The restaurant remains unlit. The grill is already heated. I can’t recall switching it on.

I don't do that anymore.

I remain there in my boxers. Worn apron that reads Kiss the Cook or Get Out gazing at the flat-top as if it owes me some explanation. The stainless steel mirrors my face: looking older than I ought to eyes ...