I stare down my straw. It’s floating in a cold beige soup that I must drink like some perverse mother’s milk. Two table wardens pretend not to stare. But they do stare in quick flashes and sideways glares-- they’re supposed to be my mothers teaching me how to get fat again. The clock ticks forward its hands make puncture wounds in my eyes that mimic mouths. I shift in my chair and my thighs slide in my own anxious mess. One warden opens her mouth to speak but a cough comes out instead. I do not take a sip and the clock yawns. I do not take a sip and the clock gives up its patient dance and the warden who coughed pours the contents of my glass down the drain. I ask if she could pour me out too-- *****-by *****. She rolls her eyes at the spread of my thighs that beg to be fed-- I do not drink.