My Cardboard Balcony

Suit Grease Saturday by Belinda Roddie It's when the entrails of a small concession stand's sacrificial offerings spill on your Italian necktie, fresh from Florence, that you get a little hot-faced and cold-eyed and fret a bit before your standard weekend meeting when you of course should be lounging in the living room, eating pizza with your beautiful plump girlfriend instead. Doesn't make you feel better that the grease looks like a cauliflower pattern against the warm, honeysuckle orange of your foreign striped accessory, and you check your watch only to realize it's stopped with relish on top, and the hot dog wasn't so good, anyway, and you feel like punching the vendor and getting sued for a good ten thousand grand before you hightail it to Seattle for a less classy workplace obligation.

As Darrell grasped the long-handled fork, he felt an odd sense of power emanating from the prongs. Granted, this was just the utensil he was going to use to devour his ham, but there was something so much more potent than ham capabilities coming from this object. He sat himself down at the table, looked at his food, and then observed his fork again. "Darrell, honey? Aren't you hungry?" "The fork's hungry, Mom," Darrell whispered. "Very, very, hungry."