It was six o'clock Sunday evening, the sun slinking below the horizon after a day hidden behind cumulus clouds, washing the day in that certain slant of light which usually left Tara feeling lethargic and overly self-aware. As she at the dinner table, the smell of roast chicken, potatoes, and Yorkshire puddings wafted through the air, tickling her nose, producing saliva but not appetite as she stared across her empty plate at her husband, scooping up cooked carrots with a large serving spoon. In the yard next to their home, a dark barked at the dusk, his voice echoing in Tara's ears as she watched her husband place the carrots back down on the crisp, white tablecloth and pick up the bowl of roasted potatoes. The floorboards vibrated with the sound of the children in the flat below rushing between rooms while their mother hollered after them in a dialect of Spanish Tara couldn't place.

On the other side of the table, Martin poured thin, brown gravy around his entire plate, covering every item in nearly-clear liquid. Each hand picked up a utensil, his eyes focused downward as he stabbed the chicken with his fork and began sawing into it with the knife. A bite-size piece secured, he pushed mashed potato, carrot, and a bit of pudding onto the fork with the knife blade; midswing into his gaping jaw, the fork stopped and his eyes locked with hers.

"You're not eating?"

From the fog of a far-distant land, Tara's eyes snapped back into focus.

"Oh yes, sorry," she said, reaching for the plate of carved meat. The fork swung into his mouth.

"You seem unhappy today," Martin said, swallowing his mouthful with a glass of white wine.

"So do you."

The mashed potato spoon clinked as she smacked it into her plate.

"I have a headache," said Martin, preparing another forkful.

"Me too."

Tara placed the bowl of carrots back on the table and looked down at her plate. Despite the lack of appetite, a compulsion to note waste food pushed her onward, compelled her hands to pick up the utensils and go through the motions of scooping morsels of food into her mouth. With each bite, she chewed slowly, watching her husband scoop what remained of his entire meal between two pieces of fresh whole wheat bread, creating a sandwich of leftovers with her freshly cooked meal. Her appetite lessened, then retreated further as dog and children quieted themselves, and the kitchen slowly filled with the sound of Martin's lips smacking together as the repeatedly wrapped themselves around his meal on bread.

She put her fork down. The knife followed.

With shoulders collapsed around her torso, she stared deeply into her plate, studying the patterns left by traces of food as if a medium reading tea leaves.

(...to be continued)