Those Nights

by Ethel Rohan
100 words



The couple at table nineteen want to send back their dinner. The guy is pale, slight, with chiseled features. I've brought home worse.

He says, "the first and last time I get duck."

The woman, greasy hair, skin, tongue, says, "way too much cinnamon in my mousaka."

They don't want anything else, just the check for their wine.

I lift the plates, cross my arms. "Did you want to try swapping?"

"Excuse me?" she says.

He smiles.

I carry their plates out the front of the restaurant and into the cool air, drawn to the streetlight and its buttery cast.





Born and raised in Dublin, Ireland, Ethel Rohan now lives in San Francisco. She received her MFA in fiction from Mills College, CA. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from several literary magazines including Cantaraville; SUB-LIT; Word Riot; Prick of the Spindle; Identity Theory; and mud luscious. She is a brazen chocoholic. Her blog is www.straightfromtheheartinmyhip.blogspot.com.