“Morning.” Her head is still ducked inside the oven. She only pulls out to rinse her sponge. Still, she doesn’t look up at me.
I focus on filling a thermos with ice to give myself something to do. She’s cleaning, doing the job I hired her to do; I can’t standaround being butthurt that she’s not gazing at me with those long, dark lashes fluttering in my face.
“Sleep well?”
“Mhm.” Clara rocks back onto her heels, does a final check of the glass front, then closes the oven. She pulls off the rubbergloves and carefully drapes them in the supply bucket, smooths down her uniform, then heads to the fridge.
I watch her grab a tumbler, take a long sip, then put it back and return to her work. And even though she’s facing me during hershort break, not once does she look up at me.
It’s starting
