“Are ya’ll finished with these plates?”

In a slow and shaky gesture, I reach down and pick up the lady and gentleman’s  square plates. Damn, that must’ve been a good meal. As I near the “IN” door, I glance over my shoulder to check Table 5’s water glass situation. All full.

The back of the house is humid and smells like food scraps, old people’s lipstick, and a fresh steak being cut, all at once. My stomach goes through the stages of disgust mixed with nausea and then to complete hunger. As my stomach’s slight cooing turns into angry audible gargles, my eyes fall to the plate I’m about to leave by the dishwasher.

One lamb shank. Just one, untouched… and it’s mine.