ELENA
The agonizingly loud scrapes of cutlery and the ridiculously stiff chewing sounds that fill the room are just hallmarks of how awkward lunch is. My eyes are glued to the plate , ignoring the tension that hovers like a sharpened guillotine above us.
The steamed kitchen altercation between Margaret and I poked holes in the light conversations we would usually have over food. And Drake? He is sitting at the end of the table probably nursing the thoughts of Rosa.
I scoff, I can’t believe I thought he was choosing me first. Stupid. The entire process feels like a mime, a mechanical performance as if we are trying to get by, to tick it off our calendar that we have gathered and eaten as one.
Soon after, his mother rises. She gives me a polite, if slightly cool, nod and then a meaningf
