Last night a hand came out of her fish sandwich. She sat in the damp leather chair, staring down at the yellow paper, dark red bread. There were hard fries, like straw rocks, to the right, and an orange (in color, not taste) drink to the left. All the others were eating silently. It was a white man’s hand she noted with blinking eyes. The change on the napkin held down two one dollar bills. The hand was crusty and pale, dripping tarter sauce and limp lettuce. The hand slid out of the bun slowly, and spread five fingers wide. She could see grit in the jagged nails, and a silver ring on the second to largest finger. There were faint blue lines on the wrist, not in the shape of a cut mark, but straight like a silver pole. She moved her hair out of her face as the hand turned over, and reached for her blouse, the small bump of a nipple. The paper crinkled, the music pounded, and she danced, twisted her lips, and tilted her head to feed.