When his dinner was ready, I dished the meal up to his plate and laid it out in front of him. I could still smell the shampoo I had used—infused with onions and garlic—just to be sure.
As I leaned over, I caught a glance of his expression. He wrinkled his nose, disgusted. “What—why do you smell like that?”
I smiled. “So you wouldn’t eat me,” I replied. “Here’s your food.”
I stepped back, and watched as he stared at the bowl. “Great,” he muttered.
I rolled my eyes. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s… cooked.”
I shrugged. “Food is supposed to be cooked. Do you want to get sick?”
He stood up, the legs of his chair, scraped across the wooden floor. “I’m already dead,” he huffed, “Take it back and eat it yourself—and bring my meat back rare.”
“How rare?” I knew the answer, I was just playing
