Creamy white China
The scents I smelled upon entry of the manor grew stronger until they filled every corner of my thoughts. The fog in my mind absorbed only the scent. The smell of every comfort food known to me from Thanksgivings came sweeping through my nostrils. I craved it all like I’d never craved anything before.
Passing the food around was a grueling process. My impatience rose within me so powerfully I thought I’d explode. The scents swirled through my mind with such clarity and intensity as I’d never experienced. Mashed potatoes, turkey, ham, chicken, corn, carrots, green bean casserole, pasta salad, olives, pickles, steaming rolls with butter. Gravy, cranberry sauce, goose, sweet potatoes, scalloped potatoes, hash brown casserole, stuffing. I wanted it all. I needed it all.
Everyone bowed their heads and grasped hands. The murmurs of a blessing barely reached my anxious ears. As soon as my hands were freed and I’d said “Amen.” I grabbed the first eating utensil I saw, which happened to be a fork. I stabbed it right into the piece of chicken on my plate, lifted it to my mouth, and shoved it in.
Instead of the explosion of deliciousness I expected to happen in my mouth, I hardly tasted anything. My mouth was numb. I was too drunk for my taste buds to work right, and the alcohol taste overpowered everything. I felt the juiciness in my mouth; the explosion of what I’m sure tasted incredible. It was tender and meaty, and oh so juicy. It fell apart in my mouth, but I couldn’t taste it.
I’d never hated myself more in my entire life. I wished with all my might I hadn’t drunk anything today. I picked up a spoon and shoveled in some mashed potatoes and gravy. I could feel how perfectly whipped they were, soft and fluffy, and the gravy was just the right thickness—not too runny, not too solid. I couldn’t taste them though.
Stuffing—nothing. Carrots, corn, green bean casserole. Nothing. I could feel their textures and imagine how completely delectable beyond belief they should taste, but I tasted nothing. The tantalizing smells teased me, and they waved in front of me just what I was missing. The smell and the feel weren’t enough. I wanted to taste. I needed to taste.
The strength of my desire surprised me. Then, I thought again of how mad at myself I was, and realized my angry passion was being channeled into uncontrollable desire and obsession. I was obsessed with trying to taste. I was frustrated and annoyed when I couldn’t.
Then I felt the eyes. Those eyes I’d noticed so clearly before. Everyone was watching me. I hadn’t said anything, had I? Then I realized I was cutting the turkey on my plate so violently I had slopped some stuffing and mashed potatoes onto my placemat. I felt the crazed look on my face as my ravaging hungry passion had driven me forward.
After my expression softened and I started cutting my meat more gently, the eyes slowly went back to their own plates. A few remained, and I watched myself more carefully as I filled my stomach without being able to savor anything but the feeling and the smell.
The buzz of chatter surrounded me again, and plates were emptied and refilled. Emptied and refilled. I slowly grazed my plate until it was finally empty, but I didn’t refill it. Then I caught the only pair of eyes that hadn’t left me—the hostess.
I could see the shining depths of her blue eyes filled with hurt. She thought I didn’t like the food. It didn’t matter that everyone else loved it. If one person didn’t, she felt like a failure. The windows to her soul showed her disappointment in herself. I felt terrible, but I couldn’t make myself get more food. I’d just explain after dinner.
How late was it? I lived the farthest away, and I wasn’t sure how late it was, and if I’d make it home. Just as I was beginning to get worried, everyone started saying their goodbyes and leaving. It was apparently late. An odd sort of mood had fallen over the house. No, mood wasn’t the right word. More of an air. An atmosphere.
It didn’t feel right. I got up to go, but the hostess pulled me to the side, obviously indicating she wished to speak with me briefly after everyone left. I recalled the hurt and disappointment in her eyes, and I decided I’d stay and see what she wanted.
When everyone had left, she asked what I had thought of the meal. I decided to explain and tell her the truth. Something about her soul had made me want to be honest with her. She looked surprised, but then she was happy. The windows to her soul got rid of the hurt and disappointment and brought forth a smile. She offered to let me stay for the night since she knew what a long way I had to go.
A creepy chill shot up my spine, but I ignored it. The blue shadows of the outside earlier had covered the inside, and I glimpsed the outside again through the door and windows. It looked black and still. I noticed the unmarred wood of the door was now scuffed, and the smooth stone was scratched. The rolling green seas had blackened, as had the blue skies. There were no golden rays of warmth. The blue shadows had consumed everything into blackness.
I felt cold. Uncomfortably cold. Icy shivers ran up my arms and caused goose bumps. The door shut, and I looked back at the hostess.
No comments:
Post a Comment