In my penury I can only ameliorate so many conditions which in the end some are left to be undesirable. It is yet again dinner time the most dreaded hour of all. No one knows what machinations have been going on beyond the kitchen doors. With little hope from my previous supplications I enter. My perambulations towards my objective seat were full of solicitude. I never dared to be early but found it founder to be dilatory. The increased antipathy was due largely to the fact that tonight I was ignorant to what would be set upon my plate. As the inexorable eye of the cook walked me towards my place I realized my own impotence in the matter. My loyal and salubrious progenies seated at my side cast looks ranging from timorous to obdurate. The woman moved around the table pot in hand scooping out our mystery meal with constrained efforts. The dross that now filled my bowl gave one the sensation of perdition. My incredulity increased to such an extent that I could have easily thought this to be a dream. Diffident and with languor I promptly called for the recipe. She replied with a “this is your favorite dear.” Yeah right I’m going to double check just to make sure this isn’t part of her plan to murder me. The title itself was not palpable in anyway. Squid-Tongue Soup was the heading, the hope I had left dangled on the fringes of a precipice. I perused the recipe scanning for any minutiae ingredient that could possibly redeem this imprecation of a meal. As my former hope plummeted to its death this dreadful lassitude over came me. Without much effort I hid my scornful eyes sealing my physiognomy from the others. To my consternation the reprobate whose eyes bound me to my chair expected me to consume this inedible substance. This abstruse concept was renting its way through my mind. When I hatched an idea, I could assuage my stomach by giving my portion to the house dog. As I contemplated my scheme I happened to glance upon my soon to be victim, his eyes deprecated and pleaded with me. I commiserated with him, surly if I thought the soup was deadly he would too. My fate was indelible; I would have to go on with this feat of huge proportions. This act was enigmatic. The woman across me burned her eyes into mine once more and said with a sharp swiftness “stop your respite and enjoy your meal dear before it gets cold.” With that I began my horrid journey.
After slaving all day without end if he thinks he can just sit there long enough for me to leave then he won’t have to eat his meal. No sir I won’t move a muscle till he starts eating. What I gave him was only a vestige I can’t understand what the problem is. I bet he’s wishing for a conflagration or something, probably anything. The meal only looks bad it tastes fine and he knows that or would have known that if his memory was fine. I wonder why he keeps starring at the sides of the table like someone is there. Oh his hallucinations must be bothering him again they come on precipitate these days. He always feels opprobrium towards them. If I take this on politic he might acquiesce. He should have an absolution. Always blaming himself for everyone else’s mistakes, foolish old man! He should be in convalescence. Instead he repines and has those paroxysms. I mean for Christ sakes! The doctor’s orders weren’t abstruse in any way that I could tell. He probably thinks this fixed income is indecent. The way his eyes are averting . . . yep he’s out of it. I wonder what it is. It must be bitter for why else would he cast such contemning looks? Sometimes my blood runs cold when he gets the look of a madman. Such sanguinary expressions… does he think he’s hiding this from me? He is a lost soul. No scion to come after him. What will become of him? I have so many questions rarely asked but so frequently answered. There he goes now and he’s smiling. “I told you it was your favorite…”.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.04.2010

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