Adequate napkins. This is the measure of integrity for my mother. And by adequate, she means the very best. Not cheap paper squares imprinted with blue swirls. Just feel that, too shiny, they won’t absorb. They’ll be useless in the face of her fried pork-bread triangles. So go back out he must. I feel sorry for him, but I remember the hours I spent on the roof, watching over the drying bread triangles, shooing away the birds and I don’t like the feeling I get, of his thoughtlessness. There is already no time to send him out for a proper table cloth. She has already come to terms with the sheet. It wasn’t an elasticated one, thank god for small mercies. Once she ironed out the creases, it could pass. But shiny paper squares? Pah! 4-ply or not!
He’s late getting back, too late for the cream-coloured linens. Someone has opened the 4-ply monstrosities he’d left on the side table and they are spreading fast among the crowd. The pork-bread triangles are a hit, but when they leave, all she remembers are the greasy chins and fingers and the places she will have to wipe down again in the morning. (200 words)
(Prompt: integrity, from oneword.com)