He who has a why can bear almost any how — Neitzsche 

Donna and Elona were definitely fucking in the walk-in. I could always tell because their breaks seemed to coincide during dinner rushes. Plus, the walk-in door would get to ‘stickin’ like clockwork. 

The problem is no one ever paid attention to anything around here, mostly due to the low oxygen levels on Mars. People got used to reserving their thinking for the few hours they were allotted outside of work. The staff learned to work slow and talk even slower to avoid the disorientated headaches. The result seemed to lead to better service, as most of the working class were settlers from the southern Divided States and the only thing we still owned were our southern drawls. People tipped you a little more when they found out you were from the south. I guess it was the one thing that still made them feel superior, smirking and slurping their space milk protein shakes and listening to us twist the menu up in twangy words like “Sav-ery” and “Sower” and “It’s fraysh beef tay-low, Honey.”

You wouldn’t think a kid with cerebral palsy would be the sharpest knife in the restaurant, but turns out birth asphyxia can be the awfulest gift on MAGA Mars. I’d spent my whole life holding my breath and catching up. Now my brain seemed to notice every little thing, like how the expo line was only ever fully stocked when they had run off somewhere, or the funny sound Donna’s keys made when she walked. For months I swore we had a mouse, even though there weren’t no mice on this rock. For a while I thought maybe the freezer was going out, the way that high pitch squeak would start up, barely a whisper over the fryers. Eventually, it got to bothering me so much I couldn’t cook another damn burger until I cracked the case. I’d pull and bang at the door with my good hand until the synthetic beef started popping and burning for me to come back. 

When the flattop heat got to be too much, I liked to lay my head on the cold walk-in door for relief. That’s how I finally heard it, Donna’s keys just a-ringin’ against a metal shelf like church bells. I recognized the sound of her Mr. Shaker Steak n’ Shake keychain squeaking each time it pressed up against the cooler wall and almost chuckled at my discovery. So this is what I had heard squealing for its damn life? Now, most people might have sounded the alarm on such juicy insubordination. After all, you didn’t get to this planet by being an angel, and the bounty for identity criminals was as high as it’s ever been. Even though back-of-house could get hotter than an August cow patty, I liked the work. I was good at it and most of the time nobody treated me like a freak. Donna was the first shift manager I’d ever had who saw me for more than my palsy and Elona didn’t tell nobody when I came in late through the back door. 

It didn’t surprise me, finding them bumping taints and all. I’d noticed them looking real hard at each other during closing shifts sometimes, like they knew something we didn’t know. Donna didn’t help nobody with their closing duties, except for Elona. They’d sit in the farthest, darkest booth in the restaurant and roll that silverware up real slow, like they were tucking in the twins they’d never have. They’d whisper and giggle until their amorous fingers laid down and rested together in the dinner table valley, cradled and hidden by snow white silverware mountain peaks. Sometimes I’d pass them and catch a view of it, their pinkies locked in a hug. I’d never loved nobody like that, not really. Something about it felt honest. I think if I’d had somebody looking at me like that I wouldn’t have come to this hellscape to begin with.