Hot and Sweaty Salsa
She's sticking to herself like white on rice, that's how uncomfortably close this weather is. In a thin white dress shirt no less, soaked through from armpit to armpit so that the circles meet up across her chest. A boob circle of see-through cotton. It's so oppressively hot no one looks twice, for better or worse. Tara has forsaken any sense of modesty. Humping heavy plates in and out of a hotbox kitchen, nimbly skirting frantic chefs and melting busboys, elbow deep in dishpans, bodies slick with sweat, hair plastered to foreheads or bandanas dripping with moisture. A Dali painting come to life. Order up! Bells clang, ceramic tableware clicks and clacks off the stainless countertops, three different languages weave in and out of the cacophony of sound, a constant hum of tension, like a bow being drawn across the highest fret of a violin, the hairs threatening to split and fray, coming undone like silk from the ear of a corn. It's amazing people can eat in this heat. T...