Tomas sat in front of his delicious repast: perfectly cooked rib-eye steak, garlic mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, and a glass of adequate Merlot.
He wrinkled his brow below his perfectly shaved head and tried to cut his meat with a plastic knife.
He had drunk a marvelous Cabernet that night, the night he put an end to his wife’s name-calling a little too thoroughly, his hands and the wine equally red. He barely remembered it.
He finished his meal, patted his lips, and sighed.
The warden stuck his head in the cell and asked, “Ready for your last walk, Tomas?”