Four seated around a table, four proper place settings.
Napkins on laps, forks in hands jabbing pasta and grayish meat,
unused spoons and knives on the right.

Casual conversation, metal clinking porcelain.
Occasional slurps and crunches, paper wiping skin.
The household cat mews in the background.

Father.
Bills are late, mortgage is due next week.
Is there even enough in the checking to pay them?
Mother.
Tuna helper for the third night in a row.
Daughter.
I’ll just say I’m just sick of eating this stuff.
Maybe that, or…
Son.
I’ve seen her journal.
Do I say something? But…
Father.
$89.45.
Mother.
Tomorrow will make it four.
Daughter.
… I’ll “get sick” again.
It seems to be working.
Son.
…she’d **** me if I told.
I guess I’ll keep quiet.

Four plates form a circle, their propriety slowly weakened.
Food blotches have tinted the once pure white napkins,
forks, spoons and knives are laid lazily on tuna scraps.

Meaningless words have turned to awkward glances,
throat clearing and thumb twiddling signals another meal over.
The cat patiently waits in the kitchen, still whining.
He wants the leftover tuna.