ragtag

it's too empty in this italian joint. i sip my complimentary glass of water listen to louis armstrong sing of summertime under the clatter of closing up.
morbid molly mentions her old friend jolly janet who is an all american homemaker with exemplory cooking skills, a prosperous garden, and a well-paying job where she examines dead people.
"it's not just any woman who can chisel the remains of a 14 year old boy out of a block of cement and then come home and bake three trays of delicious chocolate cookies," molly mumbles around a forkfull of spaghetti. i wonder to myself as i watch the pasta slurp up past her perfect lips with a sickly sucking sound just what sort of handsoap jolly j uses in the kitchen. i imagine an ad campaign with a beatific janet beaming brightly from behind her kitchen counter telling the american soccer moms in clear, patient tones how nothing keeps the stench o' death off her homebaked goodies like...
i catch molly deftly and self-consciously flick a red wound of mariana sauce from her lips and suddenly realize that i'vce been chuckling under my breath at my macabre marketing scheme for an uncomfortable interval. i offer a complimentary explanation, giver her a deep soul-searching wink and press back into the pseudo-leather of our booth to let a few moments of sacred sobriety settle back in between us.
"well at least you've got a role model," i breathe after a thoughtful hesitation and she nods enigmatically as if i've said something completely different.