She sees him through the restaurant window, uncertain through the wavering glass and grime. He finishes eating and pushes away his plate, carefully untucks and folds his napkin, lays down some money and leaves the table.
She skulks inside when the waitress isn’t looking and his plate is hers. She brings it and his glass behind the restaurant and sits them on the metal lid of one of the trash cans to study. Some strings of meat left on the bone. A lot of green beans. Two untouched potato wedges. She unbuttons and rolls up her sleeves, then slides the potato wedges down the insides of her forearms in slick trails. She circles the meat around her ears. She unbuttons her blouse halfway and scoops up a large handful of green beans which she rubs into her chest like camphor; what�s left of his beer gets sprinkled onto her kneecaps. She takes off her shoes and stomps the soles of her feet into his napkin, feeling tiny food particles getting stuck between her toes.
She redresses herself and goes back to their room; removes her clothes and climbs into bed. The scent of food will mingle with the smell of her skin. When he comes home, he will know immediately: like a dog, she has rolled herself in his dinner.