Each morning the clock radio jolts her awake with the vapid musings of a daily show.

Wrenched from the dreamworld she begrudgingly stirs.

The light resplendent creeps past the sun-worn curtains, dances up the bed skirt and beckons her to join the waking world.

Each morning she puts on her uniform of khakis and a red polo, and readies herself to join the ranks of “yes m’am” and “how can I help you today?”

She slides a granola bar and a worn copy of the seven habits of highly effective people into her cracked red leather shoulder bag.

Each morning she waits for the bus that stops across from the Marathon station. When she has time she’ll run in and get a coffee. The intersection swirls with exhaust fumes as cars and trucks stream through endless cycles of red and green.

Still not fully awake she gazes out of the window of the moving vehicle. Children are on their way to school and men in orange vests wave people past concrete barricades. 

Each morning she crosses the threshold of the big box store, burning coffee mingles with knock-off perfume. Sweatshop sundries hang off of headless mannequins.

For the next nine hours she’ll ferry cast offs from the dressing room back to their homes on the floor, like Sysyphus on the mountain, each morning, she will return.