Deli Woman

A woman sitting in a Jewish deli by herself. It is near three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Her purse on the table, a neutral clutch, by a cup of coffee by a plate of food. A hot open face real roast turkey sandwich, stuffing and mashed potatoes and thick creamy gravy to boot. Taking her time with her knife and fork, addressing the mountain of food with measured elegance and appetite. Steam rises from the homey plate, just like someone's mother used to make. The woman wipes the corners of her mouth with her plain white napkin, as it gets stained more and more with shades of itself.

A young server comes to the table, asking if there's anything else she can get, anything else the woman wants, is everything all right, how is everything. The sandwich half eaten, steam is subsiding, gravy congealing. A translucent yellow yellow plastic cup holds water and melting ice, a cup of coffee grows cool and cold. The woman looks at her meal and purse and the empty chair across from her. She looks up at the server whose name is Ann. She shakes her head. The coffee is freshened and the meal sits untouched. It's grown too much for her, it won't be reheated, and the check will not be paid for some time.