My insecurity comes knocking. Maybe I am so thin it’s repulsive. Maybe Pascal is disgusted by me. There was this guy in high school who told me he thought having sex with me would be like having sex with a pile of bones. I cried about it for weeks. Years, even. I’ll probably cry about it tonight.
“Ow,” Dan says. His face, which has been locked in the same dumb-happy expression all night, has suddenly changed. His eyes are dark, small and concerned, his eyebrows sinking. His lips bulge along with his cheeks, his mouth full of too much food.
“What is it?” Jill asks.
He reaches up, puts his fingers to his lips. Something thin and sharp and pale begins to protrude, to stab itself through. He grabs it, holds it up to the light.
It’s a bone. A tiny white bone.
“What is that?” Jill asks. “Is that a bone?”
It’s so small; it’s like a fish bone or a bird bone. But I thought he was eating sausage?
He sets the bone down on the table, then returns his hands to his mouth as it births another bone. This one is considerably larger.
“Oh, my God!” Jill says.
Dan sets the second bone down next to the first, then goes back to his mouth to pull out yet another bone. This one is so big I don’t know how it fit in his mouth in the first place.
Jill gasps so loudly that it gets the attention of the diners at all of the surrounding tables.
Dan sets the third bone down. I think he’s going back for more, but instead he grabs his napkin and spits the rest of the contents of his mouth into it. When he pulls the napkin away, his mouth is dark, and I realize the darkness is blood. He’s bleeding from his mouth. He plops the napkin down on his plate, and it unfolds to reveal the beigy pulp of chewed pretzel, chunks of pink sausage, tiny spiky white bones and a lot—a lot—of blood.
Jill is horrified. Her hands are on her face; her mouth is contorted into a scream position, though no sound escapes. Pascal’s eyes are wide, nostrils flared. Dan looks utterly exhausted. He’s ashen, eyes barely open. Blood drips from the sides of his mouth.
I look at the bones, back at Dan, back at the bones. And for some reason, the reaction that rises from inside me, from the core of me, is laughter. I start laughing.
It’s quiet at first. But . . . it builds quickly.
I can’t control it. The look on his face—I can’t describe it.
I’m laughing so hard my obliques begin to ache. Tears drip from my eyes, travel with a delightful sensation down my face.
I’m aware they’re looking at me. Jill’s horror is now directed toward me, along with Pascal’s big eyes. And Dan, of course, is staring at me in complete shock, his expression wounded and stupid.
The nearby diners, too. All too curious to go back to their own bad meals and boring conversations.
It’s too much. I can’t catch my breath.
I turn in my seat so I have room to hunch over, so my spine can curl the way it wants to, so the tension in my neck releases. I stay like this, laughing, until the waiter comes over and asks if everything is all right.
“It is not all right!” Jill screeches. “There were bones in my husband’s food!”
“What?” the waiter asks.
“Look!”
My laughter begins to subside as I peer up to see what the waiter’s reaction is. I’d say it is mainly confusion.
Dan’s skin looks the color and consistency of cement. There are rust-hued stains on the sides of his mouth from the blood. He’s not bleeding anymore. His jaw is slack, and in the dark void of his mouth, I can see teeth. His teeth. Still attached. His tongue is extended slightly. Also still attached.
He’s fine. No major damage has been done. I use my napkin to dab away my remaining laughter tears.
The waiter stares at the bones.
“Well?” Jill says.
“I’m sorry about this,” the waiter says, reaching to clear the plate with the bloody napkin on it.
“This is ridiculous!” Jill says. “He could have choked and died! Are you okay, honey?”
Dan nods his head but doesn’t say anything. I bet it’s the first time in his life he’s ever been speechless.
“We’re not paying for this!” Jill says. “I want to speak to a manager. This is unacceptable. Disgusting.”
She’s shouting, and her voice carries throughout the restaurant. Silverware begins to clink, clink, clink all around us. The sound of people setting down their forks and knives and spoons, too afraid to take another bite.
The manager comes over and apologizes. She offers to escort Jill and Dan to her office, I assume to prevent the rest of the diners from hearing any further details about the fiasco. Jill helps Dan up, and as he stumbles to his feet, another chuckle escapes me. I cover my mouth, but it’s too late.