She slapped the butter down on the table and shuffled away. Over by the window the head of lettuce sits and noon shifts shadows from the southern sun. Ten apples on a tree pray for rain. "Ten people in that room... ten and one wish..." She is drawling. I am wishing, another bagel, a plantation in Jamaica, brain bubbles riding radio waves to tiny soft spaces. There is no more pudding, only air from a voice. I am listening.