Lorraine kept the file and the frame and the shift. She did not come to the city for the feast. Not coming was the deal she had wanted for years and finally got without having to chase it. Chase was over. A wife had called. A sister had stood. A man had stopped saying not today. Lorraine did not need to stand. Standing had been done. She slept after the shift. Imani brought a slice from a store. Store was fine. They ate. The eating was not a symbol. It was hunger. Hunger of the body was allowed. Hunger of a scene was not. They knew the difference. The difference was the whole repair, shared across a highway, without a shared table. Shared tables were optional. Truth was not. They had the truth. It was enough.
Vanessa stood only to change bulbs and serve greens. Standing had a new job. The old job was retired. She told Patrice the retirement was the hardest good thing. Patrice said I know. They sat. Sitting was the picture. No coat on. No hand on a empty back. A plate. A salty spoon. A game in the next room that could score without being a cover. Cover was over. The room was loud in the correct way. Patrice cut the pie before anyone could make it a altar. Altar was retired. Dessert was the job. She did the job. Derrick passed plates. Passing was a head of table who had been told. Told was the grace. She took a slice. The towel was warm from the tin. Warm was a fact. She lived in the fact. The empty chair was not empty in the room. It was not in the room. The name had been said. The pie had been cut. The day proceeded, and the proceeding was the story after the story, ordinary, known, enough.
Patrice kept the towel from that Thursday until it wore out, not as a relic, as a towel. It dried hands. Hands were the point. When it wore out she threw it away and did not narrate. Narrating was a shrine. June saw the throw and said good. Good traveled. Derrick bought a new towel without a speech. Speeches were retired. The new towel was blue. Blue was fine. Fine was the country.
Imani’s shift fell on Thanksgiving for three years running. She sent the one line from a break room. Patrice sent proud, sparingly, and once sent accuracy when the salt joke was due. The joke held across the highway. Lorraine sent a photo of a store slice. Patrice did not compare pies. Comparison was a scene. Store was fine. Home was fine. Two fines. Enough.