The Habit of Her

The grease on the glass

makes me look softer than I feel.

Three dollars for a side of rye?

I click my tongue, that sharp, bird-like sound

she used to make when the utility bill

was two digits too high.

I'm gripping my handbag in the crook of my arm

until the leather bites,

my knuckles a row of blanched almonds.

I haven't even ordered yet

and I'm already exhausting the help.