“I don’t know what everybody’s so goddamn worked up about. It’s not as if I’ve never had a job before…I worked at the paper mill for ten years before I married your father.” She flicked her cigarette twice over the cracked ashtray.

Michael stared at the floor.

“I’ll be able to find work; oh, that’s no problem. I mean, I’m smart, a lot of my friends have jobs- well, look at Gloria. If Gloria can find a job, I can. No problem! The woman’s a mess- tits down to here, dresses like its 1960- no oomph. I still look good, and I—well, I can type!” She stubbed her cigarette out in punctuation, and a thin plume of smoke wound its way up from the ashtray and blended in with the few gray renegade curls that snaked out from beneath her dark wig.

Michael squinted his eyes and shifted his gaze to the ashtray. It had been cracked for as long as he could remember; the fault line that ran its length had used to hint at white unfinished ceramic beneath the green glaze. The years of relentless filling and emptying had darkened the crack to a murky, miserable gray. He adjusted his tie and wondered if she knew his purpose and was deliberately making this harder than it needed to be. At the rate she was going, he’d never work up the nerve to ask.