Late for Dinner

The smell of garlic permeates the air. The timer goes off with its usual ding.

Dinner is just about ready, but he is nowhere in sight.  

She stands at the sink, slicing the last tomato for the salad. In so doing, she nicks herself with the tiny blade. She hisses in reaction and sucks the blood and tomato juice off her finger.

Everything is all set. A fine, virgin-white cutwork cloth veils the table. The muted glow from the three candles placed in the center reflects off the pristine china. The fumes merge with those of the smoking food.

Dinner is ready, but he still does not come.

"Where can he be? He should know what time it is. His food will get cold."

At length, she cuts off a slab of meat, giving release to a steady stream of juice. The morsel burns in her mouth, the flavor almost too spicy for her tongue. She takes care to chew slowly and thoroughly before swallowing. She dabs at her lips with the edge of her napkin, leaving a smudge of red on the white linen, and then she severs another, bigger piece.

Dinner is half-done. Even then, he fails to make his presence known.

"He is late. It's so unlike him to be this late. What could possibly be keeping him?"

The meal evolves to dessert. The pie overflows with thick, rich, gooey syrup. She recalls how much he loved strawberries as she helps herself to a slice, spilling a few crimson drops on the tablecloth.

The flavor is almost toxic-sweet, but she savors it nonetheless.

Dinner is over. Not a single crumb remains. Not the least trace of him is to be seen anywhere.

"Pity. I go to so much time and trouble for him…and still he fails me."