Shadows stretch across the walls. Her mother's plates form stacks on the table. Newspapers rest beside them. Crates cover the floorboards.
Mara spreads a newspaper flat. She lifts a plate from the stack and sets it on the paper. Paper folds over ceramic. The wrapped plate goes into the crate. Plate follows plate. The piles on the table shrink. The wood fills.
The neighbor steps into the room. He walks to the table and points at the top plate. A line divides the glaze from edge to center.
"Leave the broken ones. Save the space."
Mara looks at his face. She smiles. She wraps the cracked plate and sets it inside the crate.
The neighbor touches his hat. He walks out the door.
Mara works. Paper folds over ceramic. Crates stack against the wall. She grips the handles of the first crate and lifts. The weight pulls her arms. She carries it to the door. A cart waits on the dirt. She lowers the crate onto it and returns.
On the second crate, the wood catches her palm. A splinter enters the flesh. She holds the grip. She carries the crate to the cart and slides it beside the first. Blood gathers in her hand. She wipes her palm on her apron. Salt enters the cut. She stands behind the cart. The wind carries earth.
The hall in Piraeus smells of wool and tobacco. People sit on benches along the walls. Shadows cross the floor. The clerk stands behind a counter. A glass pane separates the room. He calls a name. A man stands and walks to the counter. Mara waits. The hands move on the clock.
The clerk calls Mara.
She walks to the counter. The clerk opens a folder. He pulls out a paper and slides it under the glass. The pen stops at a box on the page.
"Change the birth year. A stroke of ink. The stamp arrives today. You board the ship tomorrow."
Mara studies the paper. Her eyes move to the pen, then to the clerk. She smiles. She pushes the pen under the glass and steps back from the counter.
The clerk sighs. He pulls the paper back and places it in the folder.
Mara walks to the exit. She opens the door. She walks onto the street.
Seasons turn. Years pass inside a basement kitchen. Iron stoves radiate heat. Smoke stains the ceiling. The handle of the chef's knife wears down to the shape of Mara's grip. Calluses harden over the splinter scar.
Waiters carry trays in. Cooks shout orders out. Knives strike boards. Flames rise from stoves. The orders stop. The room empties.
The owner opens the register and places coins in a pouch. He puts on his coat. He walks out the door. The lock clicks.
Mara stays.
She places a bucket under the tap. Water fills the bucket. Soap clouds the surface. She carries it to the stoves and dips a brush into the water. Grease yields to steel bristles. Her knuckles strike the iron edge. Skin tears. Blood mixes with water.
She walks to the sink and runs water over her hand. Then she returns to the stove, picks up the brush, and finishes the grates.
A mop crosses the floor tiles. Water darkens the grout. A cloth wipes the counters. Spice jars align on the shelf. Spatulas hang on the magnetic strip. Pans return to their hooks.
Mara stands in the center of the room. She looks at the floor. She looks at the counters. She turns off the lights.
Winter arrives.
The owner enters the kitchen with a suitcase. He sets it on the prep table and opens the clasps. Shirts go in. Shoes go in. He walks to a drawer and takes out a notebook. Oil spots mark the cover. He holds it out.
"Keep it."
Mara takes the notebook. Ink forms ratios on the pages. Words form instructions. Another hand fills the early pages. The ink changes halfway through. She turns the pages, closes the book, and puts it in the pocket of her apron.
The owner closes the suitcase. He walks out the door.
A ship docks. Pavement replaces the deck. Heat fills a kitchen. Voices bounce off steel walls. Syllables clash in the air. Mara hears the sounds. The sounds remain sounds.
A man points to a station.
Mara walks to it. She opens a drawer and finds a knife. She finds a steel rod in another drawer and draws the blade against it. She places a board on the counter. Onions lose their skin. Oil hits iron. Flames rise from the burners. The shift burns away in tickets.
The tickets stop.
She cleans the station. She washes the knife under the tap. She wipes the board. She unties her apron and hangs it on a hook. She stands in the center of the room. Her feet rest flat on the floor tiles.
The morning shift begins. The ticket machine spits paper.
The apprentice stands at the prep station. A scale sits on the counter. The dial points to zero. He sets a bowl on the platform and drops flour into it. The dial stays at zero. He taps the glass cover. Nothing moves. He presses the platform with his hand. The dial stays still. He drops his arms.
The ticket machine prints more orders. Paper reaches the floor.
"The spring snapped. The work stops."
Mara stands at the grill. She watches the apprentice. She walks across the room and pushes the scale to the edge of the counter. She lifts the bowl and dumps the flour into the trash.
She reaches into the sack of flour. Her hands scoop and drop. She feels the mound. More flour falls into the bowl. Water follows. Her hands enter the mixture. Flour and water become mass. She presses it against the metal sides, turns it onto the counter, and pushes it with her palms.
The apprentice stares.
"You skipped the measure. You broke the sequence."
Mara looks at his face. She smiles. She shapes the dough into a sphere and places it in his hands.
"Thinking is for after."
The apprentice turns around. He carries the dough to the ovens.
Mara walks back to the grill. She picks up her tongs.
The key turns in the lock. The door opens.
Mara steps into the room. Chairs leave the tables. Wood meets the floorboards. The coffee machine clicks. Steam shoots from the metal wand. The clock hands reach seven.
The street door opens. Three men step inside. Jackets rest on their shoulders. Their hands hang empty. They stop in the center of the room. Their eyes move across the walls.
One man pulls a chair from the table by the window. The others sit with him.
A man points to the bottles on the shelf.
"The sun sets on the other side of the world."
The man beside him touches his neck.
"I am thirsty."
The third raises a hand.
"The morning is—"
He stops. His eyes move to the window, then to the table.
"What day is it?"
The man near the bottles stares at the wood. The other shrugs.
The third turns toward the counter.
"Espresso. Three cups."
Mara walks to the grinder. Beans turn into powder. She locks the handle into the group head. Coffee drops into the cups. She carries the tray to the table and sets the ceramic down.
The man near the bottles touches his spoon.
"We will ask about the bottles tomorrow."
Mara smiles. She walks back to the counter. The machine clicks again.