Charity Doesn't Match My Chanel || Heather & Gabriel
It was 11:44 am on her first day in Barcelona, and Heather Dennings was regretting a lot of things.
She was regretting the crop-top and lattice sweater combo she had settled on for their first day at the soup kitchen. The place was sweltering with the heat of boiling pots and moving, running, Spanish-shouting bodies; even with the open mesh holes of her Rebecca Taylor pullover, Heather felt sweat beading on her collarbone and neck, occasional droplets trickling down her chest. But not wearing the sweater wasn’t an option. She’d tried working in only her embroidered crop top for an hour or so, but found that the gazes of some skeevy homeless bums and even a few of the Spanish short-order cooks had seemed to constantly follow her and her bare midriff around. The sweater stayed on after that.
She was regretting wearing perfume, because the mixture of garlic with sandalwood and jasmine was making her stomach churn. She was regretting not putting her hair up in a poinytail, because by now, it was beginning to stick uncomfortably to the sweat-slicked skin of her neck. The one thing she was not regretting was wearing her TOMS slippers instead of the Valentino sandals- what the grimy floor would’ve done to that Italian leather, she shuddered to imagine.
She was also regretting ever thinking that this trip would be easy, or enjoyable, or anything like she had imagined it would be. This first day in the soup kitchen- and the first day of work Heather had ever had to do in her entire life- was already proving that. So far, she’d managed to fuck up the rice she was supposed to have boiled and drained (and instead turned into a mushy, overcooked goop), the garlic she was supposed to have chopped (which had ended up in pathetic chunks of various shapes and size- and no one had told her she was supposed to peel it first), and even the ice she was supposed to have crushed (which she had given up on entirely and left in one giant piece, because her feeble stabs with the knife had been useless). It was awful. She was overheating, she was nauseous from the overwhelming smell of onions and garlic and sweat and god only knew what else, she had been groped by one homeless guy already, and it was only noon. There were four more hourse left in this seventh circle of Heather Denning’s own personal hell.
The matron of the soup kitchen who had been assigning the AUSUS group tasks all day had become pretty fed up with Heather’s absolute uselessness by now. She had stuck the girl in the back with a bin of potatos that needed peeling, and some weird tool that was supposedly a peeler. For the first few minutes, Heather had just stared at the lumpy, brown potatoes with a gaze so spiteful and searing, one might’ve thought they had somehow personally offended her. They had- by existing and now becoming her responsibility. With a heavy sigh, she finally picked the first one off the pile and turned it around in her hands, trying to figure how she was even supposed to do this.
"To think I could be doing poolside yoga at rehab right now," she mumbled darkly only to herself and the empty storage room. The potatoes just stared back in silent judgement. Probably waiting for her to fuck them up, too.
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