Something about dinners and tables and the things between them. Electric, crisp, heavy, dollopy, dangerous things. Thoughts and tinkerings. And shifting silences.
Off handed things and deliberate things. Good natured. Angry. Slamming, seering, selfish things. And mildly masterful things. Thinly veiled things and out in the open, opening out things.
Three serial killers with different first and last names and a psychologist with dinner around a table. So it must be that kind of a dinner.
Or the fact that I haven't been part of a regular dinner around the dinner table for years. It's a different habitat. Occasional ones are occasionally nice. There's a different dinner time family on a little screen on the bed mostly.
And some when asked where they live will exclaim the internet is their home and an orange traffic cone their dinnertime bell. Which leads to a room majorly disconnected from other rooms. And rooms with other people in them eating dinner with dinnertime families disconnected and it goes on and on.
Debra is mostly left stalking people who are allowed to love. However, for the non specialist.. I do not care.
In a flash moment of feedback I've been told I write and then it's over without me telling the reader what I'm writing about. Yes, I'll take a side of fries, thank you. And mustard. Mustard.
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