There's 58 words in this story

And that's why it's called a Fiction in 58. Sort of a literary "amuse-bouche."

Feast
She unfurls the linen napkin, smoothes it across her lap.
The wine is robust, a Chilean red that’s scored well; it breathes in a glass carafe.
The meal is presentation-exquisite, edible sculpture on square bone China.
“Why yes, there’s Tabasco in the remoulade,” she whispers to the emptiness.
And frees the empty pill bottle from her grasp.