Hayley runs the kitchen at the busiest falafel house in Preston. She has a special talent that brings hundreds of customers to her tables every week.
There’s no menu in the falafel house, everyone knows to order the falafel platter with a side of Hayley’s Hummus. The regulars often wonder why they get more hummus on a hot day.
Hayley stands in the centre of the kitchen, stood over a huge mixing bowl. Her skin is exposed and not peachy but clumpy and yellow. Sous chefs and porters dance around her, shouting orders, fetching falafel, putting pitas with platters. Hayley ignores this. She holds a spatula, and, with unnerving finesse, she slides it across her bare arms and neck, not missing a millimetre of skin. Her clumpy yellow exterior flops into the mixing bowl. It smells of oil and garlic. It’s ready to serve. Kitchen hands remove and replace the bowl beneath her, and pretend not to stare as the pores of her skin opens almost wide enough to see into, and then wells up with more of her gourmet sweat. She repeats.