How’s the foundation? Pat a bit more, it’ll be dim. Left cheek. There. Fix the hair, make it proper, neat. There. You look incredible.

Through the dampness of barreled wine (or so I assume), under the chandelier whose dusty crystals flash black above the rented staff, giggles and plastic teeth are courted to their seats.

Twist the bottle; careful, don’t slip, don’t let the wine drip. A glass is worth more than your five hours. Stand behind, always ready. Eye on the glass.

Palms up. Relax your shoulders. Hold the tray still; six plates each. Balance it, use your non-dominant. Salads go first; dressing goes on the side, please. Main course is served from the left. Once everyone’s done, desserts go. Keep only the small spoon. And keep the wine flowing.

What’s that noise in the back? Keep quiet. You can eat after they’re gone; there will be leftovers.

Loud talk, louder laughter. Sounds like they’re done. Go, and don’t forget to scrape the plates.

Fingers slip check after check, twenty-eight hundreds, signed and memo’d. Eyes wink.

Thank you very much. Wine was excellent. What a beautiful work of art. Stunning.

Look at him.

Oh, and here’s your sixty dollars, given to you by the groomers of the new, Pretty Face of Neoliberalism.