November, at the Death

There's Christmas music wilting casually through the restaurant, putting the line cooks to sleep at their cutting boards. The only customers in the place are beautiful, sitting on opposite ends of the same booth, silent at their plates and staring at the door in empty thought, chewing and chewing and chewing. No one walks in, no one talks over the music. But the bosses are in and dancing like fucks between their emaciating employees, cooing orders their way, romancing their robots. Another year enters another act of the same god damned play; it's the holidays that are taking aim, again, and everyone is right under their nose.