Horse Stepping

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I was counting the days. Work was done.

Those days. They all folded together….

People were bailing. Cramming their backpacks, their cars, and heading to the next great thing. It was sometimes sad, but we’d seen a lot of turnover throughout the season and I wasn’t far off myself.

Half the kitchen were getting into the fitness program again. Some had a couple more months to go. Some are still rocking out the Wet season with the skeleton crew.

I told Chef Karl that I’d fallen in love. He asked me “Who?”. I didn’t know her name. It was a image taken by a photographer called Mike Brodie. I described a filthy train-jumper with her skirt pulled up, a disgusted look on her face, tattoo’d knuckles and a blood stain on her underwear. He shook his head and told me I was a fucking disgrace.

I laughed and walked back to the bar for a few more Campari’s.