The man with the mustache was launching an invasion into everyone within grabbing distance’s personal space. He grabbed knees, slapped backsides, and pinched cheeks until he’d successfully made the entire room uncomfortable. People were posturing like folding chairs- curling up into themselves, flattening against walls, trying to escape further molestation. One woman, a loud, vehement feminist, turned and announced that she preferred her tush unfondled. The man laughed like she’d told the best joke he’d heard in weeks and attempted another swat, at which she scuttled from the room, stabbing each tile with stilettos and cursing under her breath.

“I’m sure you’ll find this dish to your liking. It’s one of our most unusual and highly requested- for the more cultured diner,” the sides of his mouth twitched with pride, tiny beads of sweat ran to meet each other and dived in enthusiastic rivulets.

“I’m sure we will. Thank you very much.”

The silver top of the dish was lifted, the shine of condensation mirroring the shine of his bloated red face. On the tray, nestled snuggly in a bed of garnish, another face stared back at the eager diners blankly.

“Would you like any dipping sauce? Perhaps more wine?”

“No, thank you.”

“Very well. Enjoy.”

The couple shared a mildly amused glance. As if they had never eaten human before. As if they were just some poor, common Joe and Jane Anybody.

He began to cut enthusiastically, carving off an ear. “Did someone make their order to Van Gogh?” he chuckled, his crisp white cuffs turning scarlet.

“Oh, you,” she smiled, taking the ear from him and taking a dainty bite before leaning forward for a kiss. When she pulled away, both of their lips shone juicy and red in the candlelight.

Everyone had seen it grow legs and walk off. Some pronounced it a miracle. Some took pictures (but would later find all of their film overexposed). Some cried. Some went straight home and stayed in bed for weeks, the covers pulled over their heads and the blinds firmly shut, much to the chagrin of their spouses and children. Everyone agreed that it was a waste of a pot roast.

He pushed his icy, mittened hand into hers.

“I can’t even feel my hand, it’s so cold!” She joggled their clasped hands in awe.

“Shut up, this is your fault.” Her flowered sneakers were dragging now, he was propelling both of them forward through the slush.

“Hey…hey John? I need to blow my nose.”

“I told you, shut up!”

He dragged her forward a few more steps before glancing back. She'd begun batting at her streaming red nose with her free hand, not doing much of anything but leaving a shiny trail of evidence on her sweater sleeve.

“Jesus, just, here, just… use this,” he stopped and wriggled a hand from his mitten, handing it back and beginning to pull her forward again in a fluid motion.

Bumping along behind, she blew her nose noisily. “Here you go,” she sniffled, passing the mitten back.

“I don’t want that back! You keep that! You’re really dumb sometimes, you know that?”

Apologies

I have been a neglectful blog parent and will get back to this shortly.

“That diet’s, ah, not workin’ out so well, is it?” heckled the toaster.

“Oh, shut up and cook my bagel.”

“You know, maybe you could just skimp a little on the cream cheese this time,” the refrigerator offered timidly. The coffee pot just laughed.

“I don’t think I asked for any of your opinions, thank you.”

The Tupperware decided to pipe up, “They have a point, you know. If you lost a few pounds you could go out more, meet a nice guy, maybe settle down. I’ve seen you watching those Lifetime movies. You cry like a baby. It’s unhealthy, and frankly a little pathetic. We’ve all been quiet for a long time now, but we really felt it was time to say something.”

“I don’t even use you!”

The George Foreman grill scuttled out of its drawer, “Knock out the fat! Make something lean, healthy, and delicious! It’s easy! Straight from the King of the Grill!” and, with one last disdainful look before disappearing back into the cupboard, “And for God’s sake, man up!”

The lazy Susan slowly revolved around, groaning on its axis, to say ponderously, “I thought I was laziest one. Guess I was wrong.” With a slow yawn it began to turn back, knocking cans of long-expired tomatoes to the floor, who could only manage a wheezy chuckle through the rust.

It's just my face.

As I've gotten older I've started to develop this fixation on looking happy enough at appropriate times. I completely blame this on all of the different teachers I've had throughout my life who have called me out on looking unhappy. It's happened to me a lot, with several different people. I've been called out of class by a math teacher, called up to the desk by a health teacher, asked if I was okay by a psychology teacher, talked with by a drama teacher, and on and on and on. And every time it's happened I have to try to explain that I'm really not unhappy, it's just how my face looks. My sad, sad face.
It was particularly bad at work. I would always worry that the customers would think I looked upset or unfriendly so I would become unnaturally peppy and enthusiastic about getting whatever it was they wanted. Probably in trying to compensate for my natural down-beat expression I ended up looking completely off my rocker.
"You want a sample? Sure thing!!" etc.
Birthdays and holidays are even worse.  
I love figuring out the best present to give to other people. However, any kind of gift-receiving gives me terrible anxiety. Even if I like it, I feel like I can't look or act enthusiastic enough. I end up trying to look doubly as excited as I am, which, in the end, probably just makes it look like I'm faking it completely. Birthdays are especially bad for creating this kind of situation. I dread the let's-sit-in-a-circle-and-watch-your-face-while-you-open-things ritual.