“Your dinner is in the microwave.” He stared at an old plastic container
with a misshapen lid, filled with a random mix of vegetables, some fresh
and some canned, and water with a dash of olive oil. Dinner has always
been a challenge. Not that he worried too much about it. After all, it was
just body fuel, a tad of an annoying necessity in the nature of things, like
the yolk-coloured cover of a book in his hand.
hidden pilcrow 