They are the only ones who greet me. I am the only one who says goodnight. Six dirty smocks with pink and red stains like mine. Six who are piled into the box. Six once-pristine white smocks now yellow with sweat. From my counter I watch them leave, each heading into the chilly night air.

Their effort is enormous. They move heaven and earth to help customers. They hurry left and they hurry right and they work just as hard all day. This is how some of them make rent.

Let one forget their effort, they would most likely work the same. Scrub, scrub, scrub they say when they leave. They wave.

When I am too tired to pursue polishing, I remember those smocks in the box, smoldering in grease from a long day. Then there is nothing left to work on tonight. Six who soldiered away since the morning daylight. Six who scraped and scrubbed. Six whose only thanks is from me.