Sunlight sparkles on the glittering glasses of ice tea. Silence echoes through the clankingof ice cubes on glass walls. Southern heat suppresses the lavishly dressed Fitzgeralds,exhausting them like heavy armor. Zelda sits at the end of the long mahogany table. The baywindow behind her, afternoon sunlight glows around her golden hair. The dining room is grand.Seated next to Zelda is an old woman who wears a white bonnet. She chews her foodslowly, contemplatively like cud. Scott sits next to the old woman. His eyes dart up and down ather as if he is creating a story about her which is entirely created by his own imagination.A large, round black woman enters the room holding a shiny silver plate above her shoulders. She looks to be well into her 50¶s. She plops a scoop of mashed potatoes onto Scott¶s plate in a heavy handed silent form of defiance. Scott doesn¶t miss a thing so he is amused withher zestful honesty which feels like fresh air to him. He leans back in his chair and looks at her derriere. Unconsciously, he chews louder and his lips smack his tongue. He sucks his teeth,creating a soft kissing squeal which awakens him from his forbidden musings. Wiping hismouth with a freshly pressed white linen napkin, his mischievous pale blue eyes twinkle in hisown amusement. Zelda¶s leer becomes more intense, causing him to feel the pull of her stare. Heacknowledges her and smiles politely.Zelda imagines that her husband would have been the type of man who would haveenjoyed being a master. He would have seduced the female slaves rather than coerce them intodoing something against their nature. How he could sleep with those women and not love them,she could not understand, not even in her own imaginings. It was power which he craved most.That she knew. His greatest satisfaction came from his belief that he was needed, longed for,and sexually desirable. He felt most alive when he felt useful and he wasn¶t beyond role playingto meet this fetish of his, not even when he knew it was all a farce. Power was not only anaphrodisiac for him; it fueled his self-worth, and distilled his nervousness.Scott broke away from his wife¶s accusatory eyes. His smirk no less faded. The twinklein his eye shone crisply. The old lady continues to eat her mashed potatoes, oblivious to all thedrama which took place in some imaginary land. She is too good to recognize such filth thatexists amongst such fine things. With an air of refinement, she lifts up her head, searches for theclock on the wall, and squeezes out a hot fart which smells like a can of cat food just opened. Itwas silent though so she hoped no one would notice. While she pretends to be innocent, Scottand Zelda immediately recognize the gentle leanings of her buttocks in the seat. Scott grimacesat Zelda but she does not reciprocate his abhorrence at her mother¶s flatulence. This fart wasmore real than any of their imaginings so she earnestly went about picking at her food as if nothing had happened.