Buddy takes his daughter, Francis Rose, to Red Lobster for her birthday. His other daughter, Kalene, has been dead of seven months. The muscles around Rose's lips press together. He feels his jaw. He feels like pain has clamped both their mouths shut, and he feels his love for her pulse uselessly along the nerves in his gums and throat. The waitress touches his shoulder when she asks what they want to drink. She is plump in a soft gorgeous way. Well-maintained cars sing in the parking lot. The sky reminds him of silk. The noon air shimmers, gold-colored. The greasy sheen of their table splits the light into rainbows. The muscles around Rose's mouth do not relax. Her face is fierce and cast yellowish. The world, even with all its beauty, is less than she deserves, he thinks. He looks at the half moons of motor oil under his nails. "Order whatever you want, honey," he says. She says OK. They sit in silence until the waitress takes their order.

Buddy eats fried seafood so he can pretend it's not fish. Rose gets a lobster tail and then doesn't eat it. During the meal, Buddy asks questions carefully. "How are things with your mom?" "How's school?" "How's your car running?" She says OK to each question and cuts the lobster into smaller and smaller sections. He fixes foreign cars. He recognizes the windy cello sound of a leaky muffler and the high strung giggle of bad breaks. He recognizes the caverns of deadness behind her voice. He starts saying "Rose, honey" before his questions. "Rose, honey, you want some of my beer?"

Her mouth hasn't uncoiled once during the meal. She reaches over the table to grab the beer. She opens her mouth and closes it without saying anything. With the pads of her finger tips, she taps his oil stained nails. She takes the beer and drinks softly.