mdapel

Copy, Story, ETC.

Three Forks

There is a table covered in old newspapers and uncut coupon ads. An assortment of dinner ware sits confused on the garish newsprint. A smattering of bread plates and tea glasses most likely gathered from relatives and the quarter-rack from the “Thrifty Shopper” two blocks down from the house that this table finds itself in. Two plates, a chipped mug, and three forks. Her's had dropped, and she wanted another. The young man was already at the silver drawer before she could say please. A chicken breast on each plate, lightly marinated in lemon pepper, now mostly cold and slightly intact. A single tea glass, Cabernet, the chipped mug, tepid orange juice. A napkin on a swollen belly. A soiled napkin under his chair. Bags were ready in a corner. Maybe even an overturned ottoman in the front room by the door. All of the lights on and humming. Water puddled near the woman's chair. A neglected pet petitions for more food from the backyard. The weather channel barely on in the den. A growing house empty for a moment.