No Such Thing As a Sure Thing

Sharon stumbles over her uniform balled up on the floor, a tangled knot of grey and blue polyester, slick with oil and smelling like poverty.
Too tired to hang it up or toss it over the kitchen chair she peeled it off, layer by layer.
A trail of desperation and struggle.
She crawls into bed defeated, exhausted.

This schedule will be the death of her.
Three hours of sleep and no end in sight.
Not now, anyway.
Somewhere down the line, he told her. Put your dues in and you'll see.
Trust me.

Sharon's got no time for trust.
She's too tired to play the long con.
Twenty one or slots. No dealer's choice for her.
Everyone's got a finite amount of time, you just don't know the count.
The only thing she can count on is no sure thing.

Twenty three years, she's no further ahead then when she began.
A hand out, a leg up, a free ride.
If she'd only said yes.
Just once.
The right guy at the right time, the right place, the right job.
Opportunity knocked and she couldn't hear the door.
Day in, day out, putting in time, hoping for a break in the weather.
Whether he will or won't,  yes or no.
Stay or go.
She's not getting any younger; years on her feet is hard on one's soul.

Time to rest.
Pull the covers up, tuck her knees to her chest, let the pillow swallow her head whole.
Clean linen can do wonders when you're on your own.