A holiday meal for two
A girl sits in her thanksgiving dress, smoke wisping out the window, tarring snowflakes. The only new thing she can afford is the tumult of the holidays. She can payout for a new boyfriend and his family with a little change for a pack of Marlboro lights. So she has to reuse attire from her brother's wedding. And the thanksgiving before that.
What could they possibly think about her that she already hasn't? Is she too good, too poor, too Southern. Too thin, too fat? Too cold, too warm, too dry? Too needy, too remote, too there, too far?
Weather wet and cold, but the bed is dry and warm. And empty. A puff of smoke blows back.
He is not here. He never said he was coming, but she had expected him by now. The distance to his house is too far to walk. Her feet are already pinched and bleeding from the trek to her apartment.
She is late. A hiss in the make shift ash tray sends smoke trailing in her wake.
He is not here, but neither is she.