A Dinner for Two
358 Words
Lumiere called it an emergency. He gathered Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts, and the wardrobe in the kitchen and laid out the situation with the gravity of a general before battle.
"He has asked her to dinner," Lumiere said. "A real dinner. At the table. Together."
The silence was reverent.
"We have one chance," Cogsworth said.
"Then we must not waste it," said Mrs. Potts, already reaching for her finest tea leaves.
What followed was an afternoon of intense preparation. The grand dining table was laid with their best silver and crystal. The enchanted kitchen produced a seven-course meal that would not have embarrassed the finest restaurant in Paris. The wardrobe fussed over the Beast for forty-five minutes straight, managing to wrestle him into a navy coat that actually fit across his shoulders, and insisted he at least attempt to comb his mane.
On table manners, Lumiere delivered a lecture. "The fork is for the salad. The larger fork for the main. You do not eat the napkin. You do not put your entire snout in the soup bowl."
"I know how to eat," the Beast growled.
"You ate a leg of mutton with your hands last Tuesday," Cogsworth said.
The Beast had no answer to this.
He arrived at the table before Belle and spent five minutes rearranging the cutlery and then rearranging it back. When she appeared at the top of the stairs in her yellow gown, he stood up too quickly and knocked over a glass.
Dinner was imperfect. He dropped his fork twice, forgot which bread was his, and told a story about a favorite book that ran too long and ended awkwardly. But he asked questions and listened to her answers. He refilled her glass without being asked. He told her honestly which dishes he preferred and which he didn't. And when she described growing up in the village — feeling like an outsider in her own hometown — he was very quiet for a moment and then said, quietly: "I understand that feeling."
Belle looked at him. "I know you do," she said.
The candles burned low, and neither of them moved to leave.
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