n the gray light of the kitchen， Ellen sets the table for sup-<br >per， keeping the chippec~ plate back for herself before low-<br >ering the rest in turn. The plat~es are pink with yellow flowers<br >twisting around the edges， and they glow between the pale frosted<br >glasses， the stainless steel knives and forks， the plastic pitcher of<br >milk. In the center of the table， the roast platter steams between<br >the bowl of wrinkled peas， the loaf of sliced bread. Ellen wipes a<br >water stain from the cupped palm of a spoon. Soon all the bright<br >plates and glasses and flatware will be soiled， and she finds herself<br >imagining how it must be to wait for that first hot splash of meat，<br >the cold dribble of milk.<br > "Time to eat，" she calls down the narrow hallway to the living<br > room， where the children and her husband and his parents are all<br > watching TV. She gets the cloth napkins from the drawer and folds<br > them into tall， peaked hats， something her mother always did when<br > she wanted the table to look nice. The napkins are also pink， and<br > they match the plates and the tablecloth， and come very close to<br > matching the curtains， which are drawn tightly closed. The yard<br > beyond stretches plain and white into the next yard and the next，<br ><br >
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