It’s 7 PM on a Sunday, and the dinner party drags on.

To your left and right, friends you haven’t seen in ages are inching away from the table, bellies bulging, starting to mutter excuses to leave.

“We should get the bill,” Jason remarks. “I gotta go home to the kids; it’s a school night,” Mary chimes.

And then there’s you, slowly slipping on your coat with a wink, claiming, “I’m not in a rush; I’m just cold.” You wink again.

The once-rushing conversation has dwindled into a stream, and despite the warmth of reconnection, you find yourself glancing at the clock, wondering when the hell you can go home.

You’re planning on taking one for the team and asking the waiter for the bill, but before you can get the word out, the waiter scurries over with a question that seems almost laughable: “Anyone up for dessert?”

You instantly hate him, an hours’ worth of good service right down the shitter. The consequence of a question. 

You manage a smile, letting the suggestion slide off you like water off a duck’s back, and the table follows suit. Heads shake side to side in unison. “Nope.” “Nope.” “No way.” “It’s time to go.”

But then, out of nowhere, a meek voice, almost mouse-like, speaks up. “Yeah, I’ll have the pound cake,” says Luanne.

What the fuck.

Forks drop, and the sound bounces off the wine glasses, drawing narrowed eyes from all around the table. “Anything else? We have good brownies, too,” the waiter adds, oblivious to the tension.

“Just a coffee.” Luanne adds. “With cream.”

You roll your eyes and feel your fist tighten involuntarily, hoping the waiter will just go.

But the waiter persists like a fly, asking for any last takers. Muted smiles and headshakes signal a collective no, and you run your fingers through your hair, cursing yourself for not asking for the check sooner.

Pleasantries, they bite you in the ass every time.

Luanne, oblivious to the brewing storm, looks around with a smile plastered on her face. “The food here is SO good; I can’t believe you didn’t want dessert,” It’s a way too positive tone for the way too negative crime she just committed.

Silence thick enough to cut with a spoon.

John checks his watch, a half-smile playing on his lips. Another pregnant pause, and then it happens. Leanne’s face shifts from calm to a slight panic as she realizes something’s afoot.

Her eyebrows furrow, her mouth tightens, and she scans the table for answers.

“What? Did I do something wrong?” she asks with a laugh, shattering the silence. You frown while slowly taking your jacket off. “You broke the chain.” you gruff.

“The chain? What chain?” She asks.

“You know, the precedent! You never break the precedent,” you clarify, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Luanne recoils slightly, pushing herself away from the table. “Precedent? What are you talking about?”

“The precedent, Luanne! You never be the only one to order dessert after the table has decided no.”

Leanne’s confusion turns to frustration. “Decided, no? Excuse me, are we holding an election here? I didn’t see a vote. They ask if you want dessert at a restaurant, Larry. Where have you been? Is anyone with me on this?”

The table remains silent, heads bowed over half-empty plates, forks aimlessly pushing food around. Luanne crosses her arms, “I can’t believe this,” she mutters under her breath.

And then, a glimmer of support comes rushing in. Luanne’s husband, Bill, breaks the tension with a political declaration: “I’m actually GLAD you ordered dessert. I can’t wait to try some.” He lazily rubs his belly to cement his point.

Your lips tighten into a thin line, a mixture of annoyance and disbelief written all over your face. “No, you’re not,” you challenge. “Don’t lie.”

Bill stands his ground, “Actually, I am,” he asserts, “How do you know what I’m excited for or not Larry? Do you have a crystal ball or something behind those glasses?”

You fire back, “Because, Bill, you didn’t order. If you were excited to try something, you would’ve ordered it. Right?”

Bill’s jaw clenches, “That doesn’t even make sense,” he retorts, his voice heavy with frustration.

“What doesn’t make sense is having a dinner party at 7 PM on a Sunday!” You accuse.

And just like that, the floodgates open up, and all hell breaks loose. Joline, the person who planned the party stands up, her voice dripping with disbelief.

“What? What’s so wrong with going out for dinner on a Sunday, Larry? Haven’t you heard of family dinners? We had this planned for months!”

You scoff, “Yeah, I have. But you’re not my family! And we all have work tomorrow! Are you crazy?”

Adam, Joline’s husband, and horrible cook rises to her defense, his voice booming across the table. “Don’t call my wife crazy!” he bellows, his face turning red. “She worked hard planning this!”

“Oh yeah? She has to be crazy to put up with you! All you do is talk about food and burn it.”

The tension in the air is suffocating, the temperature dropping with each passing moment. The rest of the table sits in stunned silence, eyes darting nervously from one confrontation to the next.

“Well, what’s wrong with crazy, Larry?!” Joline asks. “All the best people are!”

“Everything is wrong with crazy! This is a crazy question!” You yell.

You look down and move a half-eaten piece of bread.

“What are we doing here? The dinner is over — I got to go home! Why did you order dessert?” You cry.

“Then go, we’ll cover your bill, you cheapskate.” Says Adam.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you!” You reply. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

“Excuse Larry, I think being single all these years turned him into an asshole… or maybe he already was. Hard to tell,” Joliene adds.

The rest of the table is eyes down on their plates, trying to avoid being crushed by the tension.

“You know you caused this! This stupid idea was yours and caused her to order dessert.” You accuse while pointing to Luanne.

Luanne starts crying.

“I don’t even know why I’m here!” You scream. “Can’t we go back to the we-should-meet-up-sometime but never do routine.”

Luanne whimpers harder and collapses her hands around her face, showing off a big diamond.

The table falls silent, everyone too uncomfortable to move. And then, the oblivious waiter returns, carrying the much-awaited dessert. Luanne wipes tears from her eyes. The waiter notices the ring.

“Oh, did you get engaged?!” “Happy tears! Happy tears!”

He beams a smile and scurries off.

Moments pass like miles, and then finally, you speak up.

“So, are you going to share it?”

 

 

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