An Empty Stomach
He ignores his
pain as he flips the burger on the grill, the meat sizzling as hot grease
splatters.
Using his
muscle, he mashes the potatoes smooth, without lumps, stirring in parsley and
garlic.
The blanched
asparagus broils, sprinkled with parmesan cheese.
He paints
butter on his hot fresh rolls with an artist's stroke, still steaming from the
oven.
The savory
smell of dinner tortures him.
China, silver,
and linen adorn the table.
After the
other's feast, he carries everything back to the kitchen and carefully washes
the ware, hand drying each piece.
With the lights
off, he leaves the kitchen.
He takes the
long walk home in the dark as he pulls his thin jacket tighter around him,
insufficient for the cold.
His stomach
screams at him for his turn to eat.
At home, he
mixes the government-dehydrated milk into a froth and pours it on the slice of
stale bread. He consumes his only meal of the day and climbs into bed for five
hours of sleep.
He will arise
before the sun and make the long walk to his employer's mansion.
He will do it
all again as he ignores the pain in his stomach.
