Timothy Boudreau

That morning Cristina’s husband Charley brings her breakfast from the Diner,  gray hair tufting from under his ball cap as he hands her the bag with an egg and cheese sandwich. “Why aren’t you coming again?” she asks as she unwraps it.  “Off to provide another goddamn eight hours of superior customer service,” he says. That’s been his life: jobs with name tags and aprons, jobs where the dickhead customer’s always right.  “Make sure you eat before you leave,” he goes on. “Give my best to her family.”  “Not sure who’s even left.” “Wasn’t for staffing issues, I’d be there.”…