Elena swiped a red-tipped, talon-like finger through the sealed envelope of the letter that the waiter discretely delivered to our table on a small silver platter. Her pointed ruby lips opened wider as her eyes darted over each word; her alabaster hands gripped the edges of the letter, causing the paper to wrinkle. She looked up at the table, her blue eyes beaming under a well-coiffed mess of white-blonde bangs, and emitted what sounded like a raptor’s screech as her lips awkwardly curled into what some suspected to be a smile before suddenly leaping up and sending her cushioned chair to the plush carpeting with a thud. The always-composed and icily stoic Elena now skipped and spun about the restaurant, clutching the letter over her head as her frail, bony frame wove unnaturally between tables to a clearing in the middle of the room.
“I’m free!” she sang in an eerie, operatic voice, “Free! Free! Free!”
Elena turned to flee to the patio, but her run was halted abruptly as she smacked into the glass patio doors and crumpled to carpet like a misguided pigeon in the wintertime.

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