Mariska was no one’s wife. She was no one’s mother. She wasn’t an inspiring cook or homemaker. She did not knit or sew, nor define herself by any trending motif or couture.
She wore the starched black uniform and crisp white apron of her chosen profession with humble pride. She brushed the lint from every coat with gracious dignity. She offered each gently perfumed hand towel with the deportment due a royal. And never- did she speak of what she saw or heard while in the performance of her duties.
She amassed few friends, and time had long since relieved her of any familial entanglements, but none of that could tarnish the existential feeling of accomplishment she experienced as she set the orange cone behind her nondescript gray sedan in the Employee of the Month Parking space and headed into the entrance of the Juliusz Słowacki Theatre– to attend the Ladies Lounge.
Photo Prompt courtesy of What Pegman Saw