By Stephanie Jenkins
Copyright 2011 Stephanie Jenkins
I despised the odor of fish; an unfortunate problem for someone stuck serving the grub to tourists every weekend. The smell clung to my hair, clothes, and the seats of my crappy car. Febreze never worked and perfume—even the overpowering, cheap brand old women douse themselves in—made the scent worse. Trust me, I’d tried it all.
Rob, my boss, nodded at a tray of drinks. “Take these to six.”
“Can't,” I said. I inhaled the glass closest to me and, sadly, almost drooled. White Russian. “Seventeen, remember?” Besides, I was having a bad night. Good chance I'd take a sip or down the entire thing before the order reached the table.