The Chef's Apron

It goes on while the kitchen is still clean.

That detail matters.

The first hour leaves almost nothing.

Then a splash near the waist.

Oil darkens one patch.

A cloth rubs repeatedly against another.

Heat reaches it from the same side night after night.

Eventually the leather begins to remember the person wearing it.

It bends where he bends.

Softens where his hand reaches.

Darkens where the work happens most.

Nobody notices this changing.

There isn't time.

Then one afternoon, before another service, the apron is lifted from its hook.

For a moment the kitchen is empty.

The leather is marked now.

Not damaged.

Recorded.

The neck goes through.

The waist is tied.

A hand smooths the front once.

From the dining room, a chair moves.

Soon the first ticket will arrive.

Not yet.