She came through my line with a
glass of wine in her hand and looked at me through booze-bleary eyes. She grunted, then tossed back the dregs of
her pinot noir. “Celebrating tonight,”
she said as in way of an excuse of her poor wine-drinking etiquette. “My husband died today.” She looked forlornly at her empty glass. “Truth be told, I killed him.”
She plucked a crab cake off my
proffered tray and stuffed it in her mouth while turning and heading for the
bar.






