Genre - Drama Action - Hosting a party Word - Evidence Friday’s seat is empty.
“We’ve waited long enough.” My voice quivers. Tuesday risks a glance up from the phone. “Why are we doing this?” Monday whines. Do I really sound like that? Thursday knows. It’s in the bloodshot eyes. Doesn’t have any mousse in my hair. Didn’t even change: we’re wearing the same shirt. Monday clatters the entrée onto the table. Crackers and tzatziki. Stale. Bland. Forgettable. The cucumbers are emotionally distant with a sharp aftertaste of the closed Elm street florist. Her street. Tuesday brought a salad, filled with too many words and no sweetness to counterpoint the acidic vinaigrette. I taste the words, “Don’t you dare call me baby.” They linger on the palate, drowning in the heavy scent of betrayal. Tuesday tried everything: Cabbage. Haloumi. Eggplant. Avocado. Turnip. No response. My bolognese has too many tears. Empty but overpowering. It needs another, a partnered dish. Each mouthful eats at the abyss inside, feeding it instead of me. I need to stop but can’t. Eating is evidence that something was. While I eat there’s hope. That what was could be. While I eat the nausea stays in the abyss with me. Thursday’s touched nothing. His pudding is red. Sweet and filled with iron. Bloody lips and broken noses. Sugar crystals grind of metal shearing metal. Crushing, twisting. Aromas of airbags and oncoming families. “Put the fucking phone away!” Thursday cries, and I can hear screaming tires as I, we, look up from the phone. Friday’s seat is empty.
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