Placenta Pâté

I'm in hell.

Perhaps I was just hungry, and maybe I was invited, or I could've just stumbled in from the street following the music - the kind of music that says there's food on the table. Quite often the instinct just takes over, and I should just be grateful for that.

Hey, there's food on the table, why reason with that? - I'm going to feast.

Take a look around, Look at what they're wearing first. How am I dressed? Is it appropriate for the occasion? Tie, shirt, un-ironed, but not too dirty, my usual attire, shabby formal, stuffy informal, I'll blend in nicely.

I'm looking down the table, and the wine is at the end.

Perfect.

I pour myself a large glass to stop the shaking.

It's the way I eat a meal - start with what I crave the most, and then consume sequentially down the scale, until the vegetables, which I leave. I've eaten carrots before, but only because that's all I had at the time. I had them raw, and then boiled - you can't be too creative - and then ran out. Not unappealing, but never my first choice, and I'll never buy carrots again, and they'll never be the last thing to eat.

But here is different. This is class. The food is presented like it's made of wax, and even the vegetables look appetising. This is planning, the plates and cutlery are at one end, then salads, entrees, trimmings, side dishes, bread and butter, and condiments at the end. Food I have never seen before, not for my kind, but welcome.

I pick up a plate and start at the beginning, where I should, it's only manners. I can be loaded and eat before anybody notices.

It goes well, until the pâté, and then I realise where I am again. This is the surprise, this is the reason for the meal, I can feel it, it's in the centre, it's the centerpiece to the whole spread, the rest is just dressing. I know these people, they have dalmatians, and went to schools with cathedrals, and a whole world away from me. These are the kind of people who have a social calendar, dinner parties, and delight in culinary adventure. I know what kind of pâté this is, they've had it in the freezer until the "coming out", it's been minced with paprika and onions, and delicately set into the shape of a pheasant. Dirty bastards, it's cannibalism.

I want to run away, but I already have a line forming alongside.

And then I feel her brushing against my shoulder.

She's beautiful.

"Do you mind?" She says, and reaches for the salad.

I need to say something. Something that's clever and witty, and won't indicate my desperation for another life.

I only have one chance.

"I like the chicken." I say, without wit, or intelligence, and with all the desperation I can show.

She notices me.

"Oh. I'm sorry, but we don't have any chicken." She says.

Maybe two chances.

"Have you tried the pâté? - It's divine." I say.