“Look at that,” She yells to no one in
particular, “The temperature’s  gonna drop
right off. Freezing—like winter again—
and thunderstorms…” She scowls at the
television flashing the news, then turns and
scowls at her meal: pasta with sauce in a
little dish on the side, a turkey dinner she’d
sent back because the turkey wasn’t cut up.
With slow precision she nudges the pasta
next to the turkey and pours gravy over
both. She sits there long after she finishes,
thumping her foot—bound in a blue cast—
against the counter, calling out to passing servers,
to anyone who will listen.