Making a Scene
interrupted mid-sentence. Hands slamming on the tabletop, knocking over a glass of water that runs out over the table’s edge, carrying crumbs along the way. Nearby diners look, then away. The wait staff whisper behind the drink station, the eldest unabashedly gawking with wrinkled fingers rested on arthritic hips, tensed in judgment. He gathers cheap paper napkins from the dented dispenser and hurries to mop at the trickling mess as she reaches into her purse for car keys buried beneath a past due cellphone bill. He makes no effort to stop her as she rushes past him to the door.