Mafia Doll

HOUSTON, TEXAS

VANESSA ORTIZ

The tray slices my hands from the weight and the tiredness underneath it. “Table five, Vane—and hurry up, the gentleman’s been waiting.” Perla’s voice reaches me from the register; she doesn’t look, she orders, like always. I nod, settle the glasses, and walk out of the kitchen with the cheap smile I’ve been wearing since six.

The man at five sports a big watch and short patience. When I set down the plates, his hand moves like it’s part of the silverware: he tries to brush my hip, low, like he’s testing the ground. I block it with my forearm without spilling a drop and say “Excuse me” in the most neutral voice I’ve got. He looks at me with a half-smile—the kind that isn’t joy but habit. Some people confuse being served at a table with helping themselves to a woman.

I breathe. I straighten up. I pass out napkins. “Anything else?” He jerks his chin toward my chest as if he were asking for extra sauce. “Something else,” he repeats, and his friend laughs without showing his teeth. I ignore him. I press the tray against me, an aluminum armor, and take two steps back: distance and air. “Perla, can you help me with six?” I say, and six shows up like a lifeline: a couple hungry and short on time.

It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. At this hour, the restaurant fills with hurry, with men who think their bill also buys them permission to touch. I drop cutlery, weave between tables, run straws, jot orders. The manager disappeared an hour ago and left us “extended shift” stuck in the chat, nothing else: closeout, waste count, camera review. Perla complains her back hurts, I complain the white light scrapes my eyes. We keep going.

On a mini bathroom break, I catch my face in the mirror: dark circles carved in, hair tied back like a chore someone did reluctantly. I wash my hands, and the grease doesn’t quite come off. The phone vibrates before I open the door.

“Are you going to make it?” Aunt Carmen’s voice comes in warm but wrinkled with worry. “We were thinking of grabbing some quesadillas—your grandma’s craving them.”

“Auntie, they put me on an extra shift. I’m really sorry. I’ll be late. Save me one, even if it’s cold.”

She sighs, but softens. Grandma asks something in the background, my aunt answers low and comes back to me:

“All right. But I want you to be careful. Call me when you leave.”

“Promise.”

I hang up. I rest my forehead against the door for a second. Sometimes I wonder how many more times I’m going to repeat this scene: apologize for not making it, promise to be careful, hang up and keep going. Then I head back to the floor.

Perla catches me in the hallway with a pitcher of soda. “Five stiffed you on the tip, just watch.” I shrug. “Let