Dominick pushed himself back from the table, sighing like a leaky tire.
Eating was no longer the comfort it once was, the solace gone.
He’d grown up lean and hungry, fifth of seven children, hand-me-downs and half-empty bowls.
He had gone to war and shot at the enemy and maybe even killed them, seen friends die.
He’d come home hollowed-out, his internals a vast and gaping emptiness.
He opened a deli so he could eat all day, his body bulking like a circus balloon, his feet ludicrously small and remote.
These days a dozen crullers couldn’t begin to fill him.