Dinner Time

Teodora was sitting at her dining room table, alone as usual.

She was elegantly dressed, in need of a day feeling fine and fancy. Not for any particular reason, she just wanted to feel nice. So she wore sensible heels, a knee-length black skirt, and a fine, v-neck sweater, of an eggshell white.

Teodora smiled at her dinner, ready to be a proper lady. She lifted the fork, slid it in to the noodles, and placed a spoon under it. She twirled, then lifted the spaghetti.

As she put the noodles in her mouth, the spaghetti slapped down on Teodora’s chin. She knew, without even looking, what the result was.

As she slurped the spaghetti into her mouth, Teodora stood and hurried to the washroom. She started the water running, and used her hand to dab the marinara off her white sweater, hoping she had reached it in time. A moment later the red was a nearly-invisible pink, only there if you squinted hard enough at the exact spot. After a washing, she knew it would be gone entirely.

Returning to the dinner table, Teodora looked at the spaghetti again. She was about to sit down, then thought better of it. She hurried to the kitchen, then returned with a large napkin tucked in to her sweater. She sat, ready to eat again.