Merchant of Menace
She worries coffee grinds between her teeth, already on edge. She would have her say and eat it too, the egg flecks afloat in the sink, the slice of ham awaiting her mouth like a salty, pink sacrament.
Hairnet lowered to her brow, she stacks bone china at the lip of the table, sets the kettle to boil, dangles a fork over the mouth of the blender. This is her finest hour: finger poised to trip rapture, a fractious riot of shard and surge.