Goodness

“There is goodness in you, even though you can’t see it,” she says.

The fork is halfway to his mouth, which is open for delivery, and he stops, a flush of hatred lights in his dull gray eyes.

He folds his hands together and tucks his chin on his knuckles; congealed egg yoke puddles under the fork, which now acts as a pendulum.

“Did I ask you for an assessment?”

The diner is cramped and it is packed; it’s a living organism that pulsates, breathes, sighs. It presses its mass into her, she feels faint, a victim of her own stupid choices.

He stares, smiles. Shoots bushy eyebrows into amused arcs that beg answers.

It's enough of an insult; his abuse emboldens her.

“No, you did not ask,” she says. “But I have opinions too, you know.”