Turkish Delight
There is a half opened box on the table, splayed open, dropped carelessly, the perimeter surrounded by white smudges of sugar powder that aren't quite the same shade as the white porcelain mask set beside it. The edges of the objects are reflected back up from the lime green plastic table beneath them, and send a green glow onto lightly snoring tartan, where one tan hand sticks out awkwardly from the mess.
There is a half-finished note on the table, lit dimly by the light of a small window, the late afternoon sun diluted through panes, that have never been cleaned, of course, for the price he paid for them.
"Teşekkür ederim, aunty, teyze, the..."