Today you are an evil superstar chef with six hip Manhattan restaurants offering your menus and surviving on your reputation of making delicious food whilst being supremely evil.
Your evil deed for the day will be a phone call reporting your dishwasher as an illegal to the INS. You force all of your dishwashers to have sex with you or risk being fired and/or deported. What you don't tell them is that every time you have sex with one of them, you feel such shame that you can't stand to have them in the same country as you anymore. So you have them deported. Today, it's Alejandro's turn to go home.
It's not difficult for you to send your dishwashers away. Not since Manuel. The shame that followed sex with Manuel was nothing compared to the hunger for another graze of his fingertips upon your skin. You kept Manuel in your employ for six weeks, starting and finishing every day with that man in your arms, one of you perched on the edge of the sinks while the other had his way, trying not to thrust so violently as to make the tower of clean glasses topple to the floor.
Soon people started to talk. Gossip columns started mentioning your hands-on approach to scrubbing the squash from dinner plates. You are no stranger to gossip columns, and you have no issue with being known for making it with the help, but your devotion to one dishwasher in one restaurant meant your other five kitchens were being left unattended, and your investors did not like the sound of that. There was going to be some hemming and hawing when you sought money for your new takeout Sushi/Fried Chicken storefront if you kept it up with Manuel. So you sent him back to Guatemala.
Not a day goes by that you don't think of him. Sometimes you wonder, did the world need a new Sushi/Fried Chicken takeout place with drive-thru and to-go mojitos? Did the world need that more than it needed two people to live the love that they'd found? It's a question you try not to answer.
Happy Evil Superstar Chef Day!