First Place | Fiction Writing Contest

Supper with Witnesses

Brian held the chair for Xandra. The waiter introduced himself as Pavit and did the same for Xandra’s mother. Xandra rolled her eyes as Mrs. Van Zandt clung to her fur coat suspiciously. Pavit pried it from her arms in the manner of a country veterinarian, gently but finally putting your dog to sleep. Brian thought the garment, in fact, looked a bit like his boss’s chow. The damned thing used to bite Brian’s shins as soon as the door opened.

Brian sat down next to Xandra, who didn’t wear a coat. She said it was too much trouble to take it on and off whenever she was doing a video. That was her thing: daily videos on TikTok. She told the less fashionable what they should be wearing, where savvy dilettantes go shopping, and what workouts and supplements would keep them measuring up to the yardstick of Xandra’s own persona. She was already checking her phone. Every occasion had a second and, for Xandra, performative purpose. Even his first real sit-down dinner out with her family.

Xandra’s influencer channel was how they came to be in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey on a Saturday night. She wanted to be seen one more time at Theo Lermontov’s Le Morte.  Did she talk about what kind of men to date, too? Had she announced to the world they were dating? He wasn’t exactly keeping up with her posts. Who could? Brian thought she was testing the waters. She’d been on him lately to make his sideburns more like some boy band singer. Had even offered to do a video in the barbershop. So far, he’d kept her at bay.

The restaurant was more pressing. The pièce de résistance of Chef Theo’s trio of unusual eating establishments was nearing the end of its first year, and after that, it wouldn’t be fashionable anymore. It would then be old-fashioned. Xandra’s phone was already out on the table. She practically never set it down, but those hands would close around it instantly when she thought the moment was right. She chose the chair best positioned to catch the chandelier in the background.

Maddox Van Zandt handed Pavit his overcoat and sat down next to Mrs. Van Zandt. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Ginny.” Brian caught a look from Xandra, slid out of his lighter jacket, and hung it on the back of his chair. That, too, was instantly removed by Pavit. He was back in a moment with a stack of paper releases and fine, blue ink pens, which he placed at each setting with one hand while pouring water from a pitcher with the other. Brian looked at the document in front of him. The no alcohol rule was already familiar. Any other restaurant with white tablecloths would have at least a wine list. Still. Brian wished he’d ignored Xandra’s instructions and had a stiff drink before meeting up with her.

The Van Zandts each signed without reading. In an effort to broaden the perceived age diversity of her channel, she had dragged her parents to the place a couple of times. Brian found it hard to concentrate on the words while she watched him. He knew what agreements contained by reputation, so he scribbled his signature, and Pavit picked it up with the others.

“Your first time?” said Pavit. He spoke to Brian but smiled around the table in wordless acknowledgment to the insiders.

“I know how it works,” Brian said.

“The whole experience,” Xandra reminded him, smiling. Her hand was on her phone. When Brian had finally agreed to dinner at Le Morte, adding inertia to the relationship as well as her work, she’d used those same words: “Please, try to enjoy the whole experience.”

“Yes,” he said. “First time.”

Pavit began his spiel. “The agreement specifies,” he said, “that the patron partakes of his or her own free will, is not under the influence of alcohol, prescription medication, or any controlled substances, and does so at his or her own risk, accepting all the potential outcomes inherent in the evening.”

Brian looked at Mr. and Mrs. Van Zandt. Mature enough to require a pharmaceutical or two but severe enough to put it off a few more years.

Pavit continued, explaining the potential outcomes and how ordering at Le Morte works, but that was common knowledge. Numerous articles in the New York Times, Gothamist, and Gawker, were alternately laden with outrage or guarded praise for Chef Theo’s ingenuity. When three people died in the same hour during opening week, groups had lobbied the governor, unsuccessfully, to shut it down. New Jersey. Brian wished he was back in Brooklyn, where restaurants didn’t kill people, at least not these days. Still, he mostly listened as the waiter continued. When it’s life and death, it’s better to err toward caution, if at all.

“—and of course, everything is delicious,” said Pavit, “including, of course, the Chef’s Special.” That was the hitch, wasn’t it? The menu changed frequently but, aside from that, anything on it could be this evening’s special. That was the gamble. Like drawing the short straw. Which dish was the killer cuisine? Chef Theo picked something off the menu each night to make special. The linguini with fresh clams, through Theo Lermontov’s notoriously haute attentions, could be the best pasta dish you’ve had in your life and the last.

“Should you happen to pick the special,” said Pavit, “your loved ones are responsible for all funerary arrangements.”

“We’ll have the salad,” said Mr. Van Zandt. His finger indicated Ginny and himself.

Maddox Van Zandt was a formidable man with a lot of money. Brian had studied his real estate dealings online, trying to understand what kind of family had produced Xandra. Stunning beauty, if a little too much makeup. Adventurous to a fault, self-sufficient, and entirely sure of herself. The latter two qualities were things Brian personally aspired to, but perhaps at the velocity their relationship was moving, it was enough that one of them had gotten there first.

“The Salad Nicoise With Artichoke Hearts and Seared Bluefin?” said Pavit. Mr. Van Zandt might have bribed Pavit to steer him to a safe choice of entrees. Van Zandt was known to openly pad the pockets of some already affluent figures, but he was also a man of staunch pride. Brian looked at the board on the wall behind Mr. Van Zandt. The Nicoise was the only salad on the menu, so there was no real point in asking other than to give the diner an opening to back out.

There were no paper menus at Le Morte. Xandra had mentioned they prided themselves on being green. Instead, large elegant placards with movable embossed block lettering sat behind elegantly embossed panes of glass on every wall, visible to all diners from any angle. Brian gathered it was part of the theater. Like a marquee of horror movies in 3D. One of these things will kill the person who orders it. It must have taken someone an hour to move that type into place.

“If that’s the salad tonight,” said Mr. Van Zandt. He didn’t bother looking up.

Ginny looked at Brian and said, “We always get the salad.” Always. Xandra said they’d been here twice before. The word, always, suggested the contemplation of eternity. Ginny Van Zandt was in her sixties. A nice-looking woman. Older version of Xandra, but she might be thinking of the ultimate trajectory of a life lived with Maddox Van Zandt. One of luxury and constant accumulation, global travel, and spa days. Brian looked into her eyes. Was that going somewhere, or just an outcome?  Where am I going, in fact?

“My parents think Chef Theo is too creative,” Xandra emphasized the word almost as a rebuke, so Brian knew they didn’t think that at all. Monstrous, more like. “Too creative to bother dressing up a salad.” Brian looked at the waiter.

Pavit’s face was passive and empty as he waited on Van Zandt. “And the entree?” he said.

“Just the salad,” said Mr. Van Zandt. “For both of us.”

Xandra let out a vocal breath that sounded like an eye roll without the extra bother. So boring, it said.

“And for the young lady?” Pavit said.

“Halloumi Pecan Crusted Prime Filet with Truffle Scalloped Potatoes, Chantenay Carrots, and Haricot Verts.” Very TikTokable.

How does someone smile without smiling? Pavit’s muscle control must be superhuman.

His expression communicated pride at Xandra’s flawless recitation of menu items. It yielded no clue as to whether she’d just gotten a full round chambered in the Russian roulette of an order.

It begged curiosity. Was Pavit the world’s best poker player, or would the evening surprise him? Brian spoke as soon as Pavit’s eyes landed on him. “Do you know which dish is special?”

That same exhalation from Xandra, if marginally gentler. Brian avoided her eyes and kept them on Pavit.

“I am often asked that,” said Pavit. “What will your order be, sir?”

So that’s how it was. Brian looked again at the menu on the wall. He’d looked several times already. How could you help but stare at it? It was like reading your obituary. Cause of death by multiple choice.

Kobe Steak Tartare Quesadilla With Pule Cheese and Romanesco Broccoli
Oven Braised Game Hen Meatballs With Whipped Ricotta and Wild Mushrooms
Fennel Dusted Cobia With Braised Shortrib & Rutabaga Gnocchi

One dish stood out to him. It was the shortest offering on the menu.

Vegetable Lasagna.

One of the Times articles mentioned the lasagna. It might have been vegetable lasagna.

Why were those the only words? No mint leaves? Crushed oregano grown on the shady side of Mount Olympus? Pavit was waiting. Xandra was looking at him. Her leg touched his under the table. Impatience, not foreplay. Maddox Van Zandt tapped his fingers.

“Has the lasagna been on the menu before?”

“Brian!” said Xandra. Then she did that exhale again, only louder. “I’m sorry,” she said to Pavit.

“That’s perfectly all right,” he said. “The gentleman is—” he hesitated, “correct.” What did that pause mean?

“It’s different tonight, of course,” said Xandra. “You always change the menu.”

“Actually—” There was that pause again. “I’m sorry to contradict. The vegetable lasagna is always on the menu.”

Brian studied Pavit’s face as it regained its composure, and their eyes locked. Pavit’s face said nothing else, but he spoke in a somewhat lower voice. “Chef Theo believes we should have one anchor dish,” he said, “that never changes.”

Brian looked at Xandra. She was smiling. It was crystalline and perfect, which he took to mean, ‘This place is so played.’ “Never changes?” Brian said. “I’ll have the lasagna.”

Ginny Van Zandt looked at Maddox. He put his hand on her arm. Hush.

“Unfortunately, sir,” said Pavit. “We are out of the lasagna.” His eyes were genuinely apologetic.

Brian looked around the dining room. It was the first time he bothered. Who studies the other passengers climbing into a lifeboat when the ship is on fire? He recalled Xandra’s eyes when she looked at him. They darted. Always a little, like something was over your shoulder.

Brian didn’t see anyone eating lasagna.

“How could you have sold out so fast?” said Brian.

“Unfortunately,” said Pavit again, “the chef did not prepare any lasagna for this evening’s meal.” His voice went back to normal. “The item is always on the menu but not always available.”

This was a terrorism of manners. Brian put his elbows on the table.

Xandra’s foot again.

“I’ll have the—” The salad? He looked at Ginny Van Zandt. Ginger. An old-fashioned name. Maybe it was luck. Maybe fate. “Make it The Chicken Legs in Fennel Grape Puree With Stewed Rhubarb and Ginger.”

“Excellent, sir,” said Pavit. He went off to check on other tables before disappearing into the kitchen. No sound came from those doors. Brian noticed for the first time there was no music. Nothing to flavor the evening but the full experience.

He wished again for a Manhattan Cocktail or even just a stout bottle of overpriced wine. How can you tell it’s overpriced? When there are no prices on the menu, it’s Daddy kind of money. Brian made out well enough in his job, but not this well.

Xandra picked up her phone. She wouldn’t make any video until the food came. She checked her hair in either the reflection or the camera. Brian watched her but couldn’t see which. She put it down again but didn’t make eye contact. He’d hear about it later. He’d embarrassed her.

“So, Daddy,” she said. “How was Tanzania?”

“You know, dear,” said Mr. Van Zandt. “Like anything else.”

Did the pose run in the family? Xandra could project that casual disinterest cultivated by so many of the influencer set. Nothing could impress them because you were supposed to be impressed with the person in the videos. The marketing guys at work talked about it. Being taken in was off-brand. Instead, take the viewers on a journey. Show you’re cool enough to go places but chill enough the place is lucky to have you. Too cool for school. Cool follows the camera eye, which is focused on the influencer’s eyes.

Brian watched the Van Zandts interact. They talked, if one can call it that, without talking. A family bringing up various topics but saying nothing in particular about any of them. Somehow in the midst of it, Xandra and Brian’s relationship was forgotten. Maybe it was the feeling of being at a funeral. Maybe over the meal. When there’s no alcohol course, what’s the protocol? Brian counted the menu items. 24. It really did seem as big as a theater marquee. He did a quick calculation. 12.5% chance someone at the table buys it. He looked back at the other guests. No large groups. Set a twelve top, and there’s a 50/50 chance if everyone orders something different.

The lights were low. Not dim for an intimate Manhattan setting, but not as brightly lit as one might expect in a suburban haven a tunnel and forty minutes out from Penn Station. The chandelier’s Edison bulbs gave the impression of candlelight without the inconvenience of having to get up to see the menu. An older man with a comb-over made a sudden move at a nearby table, and his companion, a twenty-something brunette, let out a little shriek. Brian’s eyes followed the man’s hand to his chest. There was a momentary silence, and then he laughed, she didn’t, and the general chatter continued. Xandra’s phone was in her hand when Brian looked back at the Van Zandts, and she put it down again without missing a beat.

Brian looked around at the other tables and noticed the diners were stealing surreptitious glances at each other, including him and the Van Zandts. Like the Athenians at their lottery wondering who will be sent to Crete to be sacrificed to the Minotaur. He might have criticized. What kind of people are they? What can they be thinking? But, in the end, what would anyone be thinking? Whatever impetuosity, impulse, or dare daredevilry had driven them to make a reservation and then actually show up for it, presumably with someone they cared about, they were all united now in one common human element. Will it be? If so, who? If not me, will I feel more alive, stronger, having narrowly missed death?

Brian wasn’t the most organizationally savvy person in his firm, nor did he enjoy golf, but was particularly good with numbers. They compensated for being awkward as far as keeping his pay coming. What kept him from being called a math geek was the ability to scan the morning paper on the way to work and rattle off sports scores with the best of them, even correcting a diehard Jets fan now and then on how badly the team had lost, much to his colleagues’ delight at finding a fellow ascetic devotee, or at least a good pretense. He deliberately resisted the temptation to study the contents of plates and calculate how many menu items were distributed throughout the restaurant. He didn’t want to know.

Pavit eventually came back. He served Mr. And Mrs. Van Zandt first, their salads arriving as entrees with no tone indicating the faux pas. “The Salad Nicoise, and for you, sir.” He likewise delivered the Crusted Filet to Xandra. She immediately rotated the plate, lit the flash on her phone, and began framing the ideal shot. Brian’s heart jumped a little when she reversed the picture and panned out, holding the phone in front of her face to get a lens view of everyone at the table.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You won’t be in it.”

Pavit set the plate of chicken legs in front of him. There was a slight clatter against his water glass as he tried to move it out of the way. “Pardon me, sir,” said Pavit, and Brian realized he hadn’t touched his water since it was poured. His mouth was dry. The smell of the rust-colored sauce reached his nostrils, and for a moment, he was nauseated. He forced himself to relax, and the scent was actually quite pleasant. It was only the situation. Why wouldn’t he be in Xandra’s video? He hadn’t expected to be. He didn’t want to be, but since she said it, it sat wrong. Brian often had to discover that something was bothering him and then take the extra step of asking himself what it was. The answers seldom came immediately. When Xandra would ask him how he felt about something, he had only practiced answers or nothing. Feelings were what happened after the analytical side of your brain had done the best it could.

“Bon appetit,” said Pavit. He did not ask if there was anything else he could bring. Obvious reasons, perhaps. What kind of man works in such a place? What kind even picks up a fork and tastes the food once it’s brought? But that’s exactly what Brian did. He could get up and leave. Or just sit there and refuse. Nothing anyone could do about it. But he didn’t do that. Maybe it was the distraction of Xandra finally starting her video. He didn’t think so. Something was bothering him, and he didn’t know what it was.

“Heyo!” Her voice became professionally casual. “Shout out to all my homies and friends who love the cool spots.” By friends, she meant followers. “I’m here again at Le Morte, which is still so hip for a hot minute.” Her videos only lasted a minute. That’s as hot as they got, but watching her work was what it must be like when the boyfriend of an actress sees her become an alien nuclear scientist in the future and make love to another man. She described her dish and zoomed in on it, then panned to her parents. Forks mid-air, they waved and smiled like they were young hipsters four decades too late. Pan back to Xandra, and she tossed her head, indicating other diners. Brian stopped listening to what she was saying. His mouth was full of chicken with a tangy-sweet glaze, and decisively, he swallowed.

The video was over some seconds later, and he had taken two more bites. He washed it down with water, relieved to quench his thirst.

“This is fun,” said Xandra.

“Yes, dear,” said Ginny. Maddox said nothing.

Brian looked from Xandra to Maddox and back to Xandra. Maddox Van Zandt had made his money brokering deals with other people’s money, buying and wielding influence, bending the rules where they needed it, and making them where it served him to do so. His daughter wasn’t content to live on her allowance. Her half-a-billion followers translated into—he did a quick calculation—Jesus, he hadn’t bothered with the math before. It just didn’t interest him, what she did. She might be clearing 9.6 million in a year.

It might have bred respect, but, instead, he dove into the poultry, giving no more thought to whether it might be the Chef’s Special. He ate the skin and tendons. He tore through it like a day laborer on a ten-minute lunch break.

Xandra now ate steadily, as if it were any ordinary meal. “I love haricot verts,” she said.

Ginny and Maddox sped up after a few tentative bites of lettuce, small enough for a hamster. The Nicoise was sufficient for a balanced meal, with tuna, hard-boiled eggs, red onions, and capers. They seemed to be enjoying it to the degree they might have enjoyed anything. Brian didn’t like to judge people, but first impressions were all you ever got with some people, no matter how long you knew them. How much did he really know Xandra? How knowable was she? She had an abundance of personality, but how much of it was product? Maybe their relationship was a kind of product. Brian wiped his hands on his napkin, staring at a plate of bones. Was he, too, just a kind of follower?

Ginny groaned. Maddox stopped eating and looked at her. Xandra kept going. When Mrs. Van Zandt realized she’d made a sound, her eyes widened. She looked at Maddox. He was fine. “But we ordered the same thing,” she said. Maddox put his hand on her arm. She looked down at her plate as if she would fall into it—another ingredient in the mess of pink flesh and tiny bits of egg crumbling into the dijon and herbs to form a rainbow mayonnaise. She burped.

“Mom,” said Xandra.

Ginny laughed. “It’s just nerves, I suppose.” She looked at Brian. “I would say I’m eating too fast, but look at you.”

Xandra looked. She smiled her confetti smile, an emoji that, if the viewer was used to her deft irony, said: “gauche.” Other than that, she, too, looked perfectly healthy.

If Pavit were watching, he made no sign. He returned with impeccable timing just as the meals were done. Most of the plates were clean. It was an odd separation. Your palate tells you to keep eating, when your mind should say better a small dose of poison than the whole. Was poison what it was? Closely guarded secret. The release contained obligatory non-disclosure language that specifically rejected performing an autopsy. Brian wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Maddox Van Zandt had money in the operation. Theo Lermontov’s restaurants had all turned a profit, in a tough industry, with low margins, and despite an uncertain economy.

Pavit cleared the plates and came back. “May I interest you in dessert?” He said it to the table but eyed Maddox with an expert’s instinct for who had the fattest wallet.

Dessert? Who in their right mind—

“I want dessert,” said Xandra.

Brian saw his hand come down on the table with a thud and the half-empty water glasses jump a little. He hadn’t intended that or what came out of his mouth. “God Damn it!” he said. “That’s just plain stupid.”

He saw the frozen movements, the penciled eyebrows go up on Xandra’s forehead, the shock in Ginny Van Zandt’s face, and the cold blank look of a powerful man next to her that wasn’t used to outbursts from men he considered his junior. That thought and the expressionless eyes of Pavit added fuel to Brian’s internal momentum. He doubled down.

“I want to get out of here. I want to do it right now. There’s never been a more ridiculous idea for a restaurant. Besides which, it’s wrong. This gameshow crap, being in someone’s reality TV program of death.”

He couldn’t help but shoot a glance at Xandra as he said it. It was only concern because he hadn’t specifically meant her ‘show,’ but looking at her conveyed the exact opposite.

“Now, wait just a minute,” said Mr. Maddox.

“Daddy, it’s OK. Really,” said Xandra. “If you want to leave, honey, I completely understand.”

Her mouth said the words as if it were stop-motion animation. Was any of it real? But she’d called him honey. He tried calculating whether he’d overreacted and came up as blank as that smile. His peripheral vision suggested other tables taking an interest. He was making a scene. He slumped in his chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He looked at Mr. Van Zandt. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Van Zandt’s face loosened as much as it had the whole evening, which was not at all. Brian looked at Mrs. Maddox. “I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense,” said Ginny. “It’s just nerves. Same as I had earlier.”

“I’m sorry, hon—Xandra,” he said. Her face didn’t change. “Xandra Van Zandt,” he said. At that, she smiled. She liked the name. It had a ring. Would she keep it if they got married? Of course, she would. She couldn’t very well become Mrs. Brian Frick. Xandra Frick just didn’t have the same bell tone. Ka-ching! Maybe she’d even ask Brian to become a Van Zandt. How did he feel about that? He looked at Maddox again. He’d put that calculation off until later.

“Dessert will be fine,” he said to Pavit.

“Very good,” said Pavit, patiently. “May I suggest a shared item for the table?”

Brian sat up straighter at that. What a good idea. Lower risk. He was good. If you’re going to preside over a Borgia-style feast, at least give your guests a fighting chance. Or was that Vlad the Impaler? He suddenly remembered the adage about biting the hand that feeds you and something about not pissing off your waiter. “I’m sorry, Pavit,” he said.

“Not at all, sir,” he said. “I took no offense.” He smiled and that, at least, was genuine.

Brian felt a bit warmer. It was going to be all right. One dessert, then they’d all be laughing about this in the parking lot. Hell, he’d have a story to tell those conservative jerks at work who thought he was milquetoast. The boss’s dogsitter.

“Our options are a creme brulee, cheesecake, molten lava cake, or apple pie.” Why was it that restaurants put so much effort into an elaborate menu only to make dessert a cliché?

“I don’t like custard,” said Ginny, “and Maddox doesn’t like cheese.”

“How’s the apple pie?” said Brian, surprised he was speaking up.

“The homemade apple pie is superb, sir. All our desserts—”

Doubling down on the Russian roulette was insane but, sure, count us in. “Pie, Xandra?” Brian said. He looked at her, not knowing what he expected.

“That’ll be fine,” she said.

“Pie, Pavit,” said Brian. Maybe the point of Le Morte was to face your mortality at least once. He had a feeling it would be worth it.

“Excellent,” said Pavit. “Espresso?”

“Why not?” said Brian.

“Make mine decaf,” said Xandra.

“Same for Mrs. Van Zandt and I,” said Maddox.

Pavit went away.

“Daddy used to live in Brooklyn, too,” said Xandra.

“Is that right?” said Brian. “What part?”

“Gowanus,” said Mr. Van Zandt. “And you’re where?”

“Fort Greene,” said Brian. “Edge of Clinton Hill.”

“That’s a good area,” said Maddox. “A lot of new development.”

Brian didn’t think that part was good, but he didn’t say so. He wanted Maddox Van Zandt to like him.

“I’m pleased to learn more about you,” said Mr. Maddox.

“Yes,” said Ginny. “We’re very happy to get to know you.”

“Likewise,” said Brian. “I’m honored we’re out together.”

“Don’t be modest,” said Maddox. “Xandra speaks very highly of you.”

Had she?

The pie came with four forks and four espressos. There was a moment of connection, and everyone smiled, looking at each other. Who’d take the first bite? It was only right. Brian did. It was delicious. The crust was flaky, the apples warm, and there was a comforting dash of cinnamon. It was undeniably good and wholesome.

The forks stayed busy. They laughed. The pie disappeared, and they sipped their coffee with the beginning of a bond between them. Mr. Van Zandt even said, “Call me Maddox.”

The conversation bordered on lively until Brian noticed that Mr. Maddox was sweating and turning pale. He nudged Xandra under the table, and she had the same pallor. Oh my God.

He looked at Ginny Van Zandt, and it was the same. He stood up from the table, knocking over the remainder of his espresso and not caring. The Van Zandts seemed frozen in their chairs.

“Pavit! Get help.”

Pavit trotted or ran to the table. Brian couldn’t tell which. The waiter moved so fast that he seemed to float. Behind him, toward the kitchen, a door opened, and a man that could only have been Chef Theo Lermontov glided through it and stopped, watching. He seemed sad but unalarmed. The bastard knew. He knew.

Brian would murder him when this was over. So help him. He grabbed Xandra’s cell phone. He hated the damned thing. All cell phones. Refused to carry one when he went out, lest his boss call him on it. Hated what the phone represented for Xandra, but none of that mattered now. He saw the look of fear on her face. He dialed emergency services. Just three numbers. He was good with numbers. He heard the dispatcher’s voice, and it was a strangely familiar one, but there was no time to wonder why.

“Get help,” he said. “Morte—” He tried to make the words come out right. What was the damned address? “Le Morte,” he said. “Get help.”

The voice on the other end said, “Honey? Get up, please, honey.”

Then it wasn’t the phone, but Xandra’s face over his. “Honey, it’ll be OK.” She was crying. All that makeup ran from her eyes in streaks. Brian thought it wouldn’t look very good on TikTok.

Pavit’s voice. “I’m sorry, sir. I told Chef Theo the coffee was sacrosanct, but he insisted it should be special.” Xandra crying. Mr. Van Zandt swearing at Theo Lermontov. Ginny saying, “Oh my God.” Pavit still apologizing. “A chef wants to leave his mark on everything.” Then it was a roar. He could see chairs pulled out, people rising from their tables, and there was thunderous applause. Not everyone stood. Some began eating as if doing so was its own celebration. Those who had hesitated now stuffed their faces with relief that they were safe. The newspapers were right. Lermontov was a maniac, except he was no more so than anyone else. He was just a mirror, like a TikTok channel telling you who you hope to be.

Brian clawed the floor but could not feel his knees or stand. So, this was Le Morte. No one knows how to treat death or act around the dying. Casual until it happens. Then panic and reassurances, all the while consoled that it’s not you. An experience you drag your dearest through and strangers alike. It’s the living who are crazy. Clinging to life and, in that clinging, the need to observe its opposite. Perhaps they were right to cheer.

He made up his mind. He knew what was bothering him. As soon as help came, as surely it would—as soon as he was back on his feet, he would break up with her. The endless posing. She posed for her followers. The food posed as nourishing and safe. The conversation was comforting and connecting, but comfort in that it’s not happening to you.

There was a blue-white light, cool but sharp. Piercing as it grew brighter. It soon dissolved the edges of the room. He heard Xandra’s voice. That was the last thing he heard. She was making a video.

*

• • • Thanks for Reading • • •

As writers, we all know how much it means to hear others have been moved by our work. We encourage you to share a few honest, heartfelt words in the comments section below. Thanks again, we’re so glad you’re here!