He finishes the sandwich and picks at the plastic plate, looking for leftover bits of chicken and lettuce. His lips move while he reads his phone. Thick black glasses perch on top of his bald head. His cheeks are jowly. A white gold band cuts into his ring finger like barbed wire grown into an old oak tree. He sits alone at the small booth in the corner. It is dinnertime.
Published by Amy Bee
Amy Bee regularly writes for the Sacramento News & Review and her work has appeared in Salon, NANO Fiction, Indiana Voice Journal, and The Manifest-Station. When she isn’t writing, Amy likes to backpack long distances and marinate in her constantly nagging existential worries. Find her worries at www.lionbythetail.com and her backpacking at www.mountainsforbreakfast.com View all posts by Amy Bee