Patient Belongings

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A famous chief dishes out a plate of kindness

Submitted: March 30, 2007

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Submitted: March 30, 2007

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She comes each night after the diners are gone, cart in tow, bulging plastic bags, imprinted with the words, “Patient Belongings.”  She has a magnificent under bite and a sloped forehead.  She cuts her own hair with a dull instrument hidden in an oatmeal box.  She sits at a table in front the bistro while the storefronts are shuttered and the gates pulled halfway closed.  Empty bottles are rattled into bins and the sidewalks are washed and swept. Dusky moths bounce in the lamplight.  The night is warm. A fresh tablecloth is set for her, something with a lavender motif.  She sits without expression, bottom lip jutting, a dull stare and cocked head.  She is quite still, without smile, no frown, emotionally neutral, no signal of anticipation. And then Daniel Luis himself appears from his kitchen with his Galician grin and huge chef hands, bearing a plate of smoked trout and cassoulet. Daniel Luis pours the spring water and spreads the napkin over her lap. She doesn't acknowledge the tender gesture, cannot twist mouth corners skyward with that wracked face. Instead she illuminates and sets upon the plate heartily.


© Copyright 2018 Vic Monchego. All rights reserved.

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