or does it explode?

Her half-eaten rack of ribs go in the trash with my basket of untouched biscuits, and we push a crate of dirty cups to the Mexicans running the dishwasher. As we attend to our own hands, I ask Megan how she's lasted seven years doing this shit. She laughs, soaping barbecue sauce off the diamond in her wedding ring. "I'm just here until I can find my career."

I tried to laugh too.

I mean, it's funny I guess. We bust our ass to maintain gas, groceries and a transient escape. Chicken scratch. Table scraps. The feeling that I'm being wronged is palatable. It's the bitter taste in my mouth as I drive home, emotionally fatigued. Rent is paid by i'm sorry thank you of course. They call it a tip. It feels like a handout.

I can't just spend life with these hands out, wondering why I haven't grabbed anything. Minimum wage is not a living wage. It just means they legally can't pay me any less. I'm a small financial inconvenience once every two weeks. They only care about their margins. I'm a digit in a Profit and Loss statement. They don't give a fuck about me.

I matter.

What are my dreams worth?
$9.00 an hour?