A dinner pretense


Seated around a table, with classical music playing in the back, painted dishes passed from plate to plate. Never a quiet moment, yet also never intriguing. One can’t expect anything different with no essence and just a shell. And she didn’t have high expectations.

She sloshes her wine, resentfully watching the glass whose end is showing. Unlike this meal. There is not enough alcohol at this table, in the world, to make this evening pleasant. Jokingly, she thinks to herself she should be high for this. Not that she would, or that she ever has. But the thick, sticky atmosphere hanging above the dining table, slowly and annoyingly dripping on her is making her restless and miserable. She can feel every. Single. Drop. Drip. Drip.

The guests’ eyes are shooting daggers at each other, sandwiching vile words between politeness leaving their mouths, while fake smiles are plastered on their lips. It makes her stomach twist; she can taste the tension. She glances from one facial mask to the other, disbelief and discomfort gripping her heart. Not one nice thing is said, no compliments and no love.

She inhales her dinner and makes a poor excuse, bolting for the door. It breaks her heart to turn down the dessert but sacrifices need to be made in times like this. She doesn’t care how it may seem, unbelievable or even rude. She needs to get away and never come back. She’s never understood the pretense and she never will. She would never want to.


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