Dinner was awkward and quiet and bad. Or maybe he was simply the awkward one for thinking it was awkward in the first place. Or, even better, perhaps he was overthinking everything and it was just that the food was terrible…
Or something…
Maybe it had nothing to do with him. That was probably it, right?
Seeing as his f*****g nose didn’t work, it wasn’t like he could taste any of it, was it? All he knew was that it was warm, a little grainy from the ‘mince,’ and a tad on the sloppy side.
It was the peak of appetizing fare, really.
Absolutely gourmet.
He’d be expecting his Michelin star in the mail any day now. Unless Michelin stars weren’t a physical thing that a person could mail or hold—
Fuck.
Even inside of his own head, he was rambling. He’d done that out loud a couple of ti
