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Everything should make perfect sense, and then and only then can we move on to dinner.
These are the rules and I know them well. It’s tiring.
Trust me when I say that the take-out quesadillas will grow cold. The sense that he has requested be made is not sensical at all. I cannot follow teachings detached from the reality I see, regulations designed to twist into themselves like a pretzel. All the language he uses pulls from a world that doesn’t seem to be there.
I know that I’m wrong, because he says so. I trust him. But I just can’t sort it out. Something is off. But how would I know?
I won’t feign understanding, so the quesadillas get cold. They sit in their foil, the cheese solidifying sadly into thick, white layers. The ceilings of their styrofoam boxes are covered in condensation, dripping lackadaisically onto the piles of lettuce and pico de Gallo.
They forgot the side of guacamole but the extra sour cream is there. I see it in its plastic ramekin, sitting atop the styrofoam boxes. It is my focal point while I stare, mouth closed firmly, listening to the sound of his scold.
My eyes dart around the rest of the table scape. It’s a hideous kitchen table, certainly not the type to host sit-down meals and intimate dinner conversations. It’s too inhospitable for that, with its murky brown surface and its jarring, brass decorative hardware. How would one arrange the chairs, anyway, around a small octagon like this?
Behind the quesadillas there’s another plastic bag, brown and crumpled. I eye its contents — a handful of protein bars with one half eaten tossed carelessly atop. Behind that is a lonely bottle of obscure liquor, next to.a stack of books about law. Because he likes to be as right as possible.
But he is wrong, and this is the saddest kitchen I’ve ever seen.