Primo grills a steak. I make salad, broccoli with the stems because I like the stems, and the homemade rolls.
Guess what happens? Guess?
“Oh, we're not that hungry,” Doris says. “You really didn't need to go through all that trouble for us.”
Imagine, if you will, the face of a woman who has had to be Fake Nice for (counting the hours since they arrived) over 24 hours and is looking at another (pulling up calculator on computer) 144 hours of being around these people.
Oh. And who is going through a miscarriage.
It is a face of shock, of a frozen smile, of, “You can’t even muster a polite lie and say that it looks delicious and thank you for all that hard work on our behalf?”
I don’t know how to describe that face any better except it is not one you want to have to use.
Their lack of hunger does not stop them from finishing two bottles of wine, though.
The good thing is that there are plenty of leftovers. Primo and I will have something for lunch. There is no food going to waste. Except for the cheese, of course. Expensive cheese eaten by people who are former smokers and heavy drinkers. They probably didn’t taste a thing. We could have fed them a wet sponge and they wouldn’t have known the difference.