Mitzi hated the breakfast shift at the hospital, staring into vats of lumpy oatmeal. and scrambled eggs, congealing, then crusting on the underside of the ladle. disgusting. she adjusted the net that kept her hair in place and hauled the metal vat of oatmeal onto a rolling cart.
“Need a hand?” a male voice. a man with beefy forearms and a way of standing that reminded her of Marlon Brando in “On the Waterfront”. manly.
“I’m okay,” said Mitzi and pressed her uniform over her hips like she was ironing it. the cart rolled to the left.
“You certainly are,” he said and grinned, exposing his eyeteeth. he had a delicious overbite. Mitzi fantasized about his teeth grazing the vulnerable aspect of her waist, the space between rib and hip.
the breakfast shift was definitely looking up.