She squeezed the tousled plait of the braid between her fingers.

Raking her fork through the mess of hash browns and ketchup, Bette pondered the terms of the divorce.

Rattling forks and the scrape of knives on ceramic could be heard through the restaurant door.

The rags burned in fiery spirals that no spine could recreate in dance.

Buses drove through the twill of night.

Her cell phone shattered on the floor.

The Cadillac showed no signs of use.