Saturday scene
Her chair is not pushed in. Hers is the only placemat remaining on the kitchen table from the breakfast we prepared and served, a crumbled-up napkin resting atop, left out of spite at being asked to put it away when she wasn't in the right frame of mind to do so. On the kitchen counter is her work ID badge and lanyard—courtesy of the job we held her hand through finding and applying for, and which she has somehow retained despite her extreme case of RBF within the field of customer care and retail—next to a three-foot-tall brand-name water bottle that she will violently fill under duress when it’s time to leave for said job, spilling and sloshing her way toward a promise of hydration that won’t be fulfilled, in turn depleting what remains of our filtered water supply and the ice that we had to make via a separate machine because she and/or her sister broke the freezer’s built-in ice maker. There are tweezers on the counter, too, for some reason, along with a receipt for eyelash att...
