French fries, Graham thinks grimly, staring at the tray and the hot, steaming spuds lying there like the dozens of cancer sticks he used to suck down and toss in his metal ashtray after a particularly bad night on the beat.
Jane wanted French fries that last night. God forbid I'd've listened to her and picked some up on my way home from the dive I was getting sloshed in. Instead I left her to fend for herself. Everyone knows dames can't do that! Damn I was a lousy husband then and I'm a lousy orderer now.
He suddenly slams his fist into the plate of fries, which mash beneath his meaty hand like the face of that would-be Orion snitch. He lifts his head, eyes glinting and diamond-hard--
no, not diamonds, don't think about how I slipped that diamond ring on her finger thinking it'd be forever--and glares at the chinless wonder across from him at the Mess hall.
"D-didn't you want those, sir?" the mess hall helper asks.
"No. No, I don't want them. Give me..." He swallows back his rage, as hard to take as the rotgut whiskey he keeps in a boot back in his quarters. "Anything you got."
"Well... we've got these...."
Graham winces when he follows the kid's gesture. Well, what the hell. Dignity's a hard thing to maintain when you're hard-bitten enough so that everything's a reminder of some tragic mistake.
But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, he thinks hard-bittenly. "Fine," he says through gritted teeth. "Tator tots it is."