The burned catfish she throws away, eyeing the ringing phone as she fries the next batch up, her blood churning more fiercely with each sizzling piece. Polly. She doesn’t answer. The phone continues to ring, clashing with the music on the radio, which she snaps off briskly, as if it were the cause of her annoyance.
She watches the fillets cook, one at a time, the breadcrumbs crisping golden brown around the whitening meat, the oil bubbling, spattering her hands, red-hot pinpricks on her skin. She doesn’t care. Her eyes water in the greasy heat. Her hair will smell of it tomorrow, even after the boy she’s cooking for is gone.