Three lunches a week, throw in a couple of dinners for good measure. The specials change, the customers change. I wear the same shoes, the same, black apron. And amidst the ever-present tinkling of the wine glasses on my tray and the constant marching to and from the kitchen one thing always happens at some point during the day. The same three lines from Trail Before Pilate in Jesus Christ Superstar enter my brain. I don't know how they get there and I never notice them until I realize that they are playing, yet again, over and over in the background of all I do. My steps fall into their rhythm. My breathing is punctuated by their force. My mind is full of sandy air and hot sun; dust in my nostrils and beneath my feet. The lines are garbled a bit, out of order, but they're the same everyday. "He's a sad, little man. Not a king or God. That is not a reason to destroy him!" I have learned to wait, not prodding, just waiting, for the presence of these words to make themselves known to me. And then, just as they appeared, they vanish, and I hardly think about it or notice their absence. I change my shoes and hang up my black apron and walk home.