Marlene smiled, satisfied, and leaned back in her chair. The waiter nodded and walked away quickly, probably relieved to escape the tension.
Marlene’s parents didn’t even seem to notice the exchange. They were too busy admiring the place, commenting on how exclusive it all was.
And so the dinner began.
Well, their dinner.
I just had my glass of water—clear, cold, silent—just as I was apparently supposed to be.
The lobsters arrived ten minutes later: four enormous steaming plates, with that aroma of butter and herbs that filled the whole table. The waiter placed them carefully in front of each of them—Marlene, Michael, and her parents, who hadn’t even said a word to me since I arrived.
Not a hello. Not a how are you.
Nothing.
It was as if I were invisible, or worse, as if I were part of the furniture.
Marlene was the first to crack the shell of her lobster. The crunch echoed in the awkward silence that had settled. She took a generous piece of white meat, dipped it in melted butter, and brought it to her mouth with deliberate slowness. She closed her eyes as if she were tasting something divine.
Theatrical. Everything about her was always so theatrical.