once I sat with two friends at a small white table at cafe du monde in new orleans. we drank cups of hot coffee with chicory and ate beignets until our fingers were sticky with sugar and evening light dimmed to blue. I noticed our server outside the cafe on a smoke break, perched on top of a cement street bollard. legs dangling, cigarette dangling. I wandered outside, asked her how long she'd been working. too long, she said and I nodded. I looked down, noticed her boots. pointed my camera at them and she smiled. powdered sugar, she said. I can't get away from it. it's everywhere. everywhere.