ELENA
Rosa looks at Liam and then her gaze falls toward her flexed claws. The nails glisten under the light pointing from the chandelier directly above the dining table: a beautiful shade of red, the gel done to perfection and the tip filed just as cleanly.
She glances at the shrimp just a few feet away from her and back at her nails before folding them around her cutlery and eating again. Liam’s whining tears through the room again, “shrimp!” He cries out.
She remains unperturbed, taking delicate bites from the meal without looking up. Once, twice, she does it, as if the noise from her child has suddenly become inaudible to her. I wonder how long she can keep this up, but I don’t want to find out.
The way Liam’s face is contorted, almost like he is in pain of some sort. His cheeks are
