Cackle(60)

He points to me and then mimes making himself throw up, indicating he believes I’m bulimic.

Jill slaps his hand, a playful rebuke.

“Fine,” Dan says. “Don’t take my advice. But if you’re wondering why Pascal is so quiet . . .”

“Dan!” Jill says, but it’s through laughter. She’s genuinely charmed by everything he says. It’s mind-boggling.

“All right,” I say. “Thanks for the tip.”

“There it is! Some gratitude. You’re welcome,” he says, smiling. A big dumb, self-satisfied grin. He has no idea how much of an asshole he’s being. I imagine it started in his youth, a few bad off-color jokes that people laughed at to be polite, or because they had terrible senses of humor, or because they were family and loved him so much they’d marvel at anything he said or did, or because his primary audience was a bunch of prepubescent peers. And as time went on, he continued to get this positive reinforcement. If the occasional person didn’t laugh at his bad jokes or bullying or general shtick, he’d assume it was their fault, that they were no fun, sticks-in-the-mud. In adulthood, he’s surrounded himself with like-minded idiots to insulate himself from any negative feedback.

And through this lifelong cycle of validation and fortification, his ego has transformed into something large and dangerous. I picture a Godzilla-like creature with an enormous, destructive body and a teeny-tiny brain. Terrorizing those smart enough to recognize it, entertaining those too stupid to realize they’ve created a monster— and monsters can’t be unmade.

Watching him chew, opening his mouth to shovel more food in before he swallows what’s already inside, I’m certain he doesn’t have an ounce of self-awareness. I’m also certain it’s no excuse, though nothing I can say or do in the next hour will magically change him. Make him realize that he’s been horrifically rude the entire night and apologize profusely.

Pascal, too. If he’s not attracted to me, fine. Ouch, but fine. The least he could do is make minimal conversation. Not sit there making small, erratic movements like a malfunctioning animatronic puppet whose memory has been wiped of words.

I think about Sam, about what it would be like if he were here. We’d be making fun of the decor, drinking soda because we’d be too embarrassed to drink out of beer steins and too happy to have any need for hard liquor. We’d order cheeseburgers and he’d get fries and I’d get onion rings and we’d share. We’d speak to each other in bad German accents. Maybe we’d call each other Hansel and Gretel.

“How’s everything?” the waiter asks.

“Great!” Jill says.

“Can you bring more of the cheese?” Dan asks. “And another pretzel.”

“Okay,” the waiter says. “I’ll be right back with that.”

“Are you still going to be hungry for dessert?” Jill asks Dan. She turns to me. “They have the best dessert here. Have you ever had Black Forest cake?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Yeah, right,” Dan says. “Look at her. She’s never had a piece of cake in her life.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, to say that I eat cake all the time and that I’m just naturally thin. That this is the way my body looks and has looked since I was about fourteen. But I zip my lips back together. What difference will it make?

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.