Music playing. Ovens beeping. Timers going off. Coffee grinder roaring. Espresso machine whirring. Steam wand spitting. Milk screaming. Customers ordering. Cash drawers slamming shut. People chatting. Baristas calling out drinks.
In the midst of all this noise, I jerk open the oven door and pull out the last sandwich of my shift. My right hand grips the bag into which my left hand will deftly slide the hot sandwich.
Or not. A four-inch glob of hot cheese jumps out of the sandwich and lands on my arm. Horrified, I just stare at it as the seconds stretch into slow-motion. Both of my hands are full, so I have to finish putting the sandwich in the bag while the scalding cheese burns my skin. By the time I get over to the sink, it’s too late.
This is what my arm looks like a few days after the incident:
So far, only one customer has noticed, which makes me think it must not be that bad.
“I would say it was a scarring experience,” I explained to him, “but I don’t know yet if there will be a scar. We’ll see.”
(The pun was in honor of my sister who includes at least one pun with every social media post)
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