Already Ate

Something about the chicken is off. I pull the piece out of my mouth and rest it on the plate. Something about the entire meal is off though. I sit alone in my room, door shut, listening to my friends just outside it.

"Where's Danny?" one asks. "In his room," another says. "Why is he in his room?" goes a third. And I can only imagine this question is met with a shrug.

They are making dinner plans, dinner plans without me. Someone talks about my chicken, and whether or not I should be invited. I am of the school of thought that says you always invite. It's polite, and you never know. They don't know the chicken's gone bad, I haven't told them yet. I wonder now if I ever will.

I hear laughter and a few more bottle caps. Pizza, tacos, diner, grocery store. I look at my plate, my sad plate, remnants of sweet potato and a half-eaten breast. They settle on pizza, and I am so entirely hungry.

I finish the potatoes. I eat the chicken, even the piece I spit out. I open my door brandishing a clean dinner plate. They ask if I want to join them for pizza, and I tell them no, thank you, I already ate.