I won’t wonder why I rarely get dinner invites after this.
Dinner Invite
I was glad to get the invite,
like a dog wagging its tail for a treat,
but when I walked in,
the smell hit me.
Not the good kind,
but the kind that makes you wonder
what went wrong in the kitchen,
what went right in the graveyard.
She smiled, setting down my bowl,
"Hope you like it, it's my grandmother's recipe!"
I took a forkful,
tried to look human,
swallowed it whole
like a bad poem
I couldn't stop reading.
It tasted like disappointment,
like forgotten dreams,
like the kind of thing
you don't give to your enemy.
But I said,
"Oh, it's very... unique.
Really, very… interesting."
They all smiled,
like they didn't notice
the way my eyes
were twitching,
the way my stomach
was screaming.
The beer helped a bit,
but not enough
to erase the feeling
of being polite
and still wanting to throw the bowl
out the window.
I was happy to be there.
Really.
But if anyone asks,
I’ll say it was "delightful."
It’s easier that way.
At least the silence
between bites
tasted better
than the food.