All Parties Served and Consumed

My empty plate sat in front of me, as clean as a bone. I always finished my food too quickly, and my mother warned me about it. You’ll choke, she used to yell.

As I sit here and think back to those moments at the dinner table, I wouldn’t mind choking to death around these people—snotty, unbearable, nepo babies. Meanwhile, I worked my ass off to get where I am today. I didn’t have mommy and daddy to bribe someone into passing me the bar exam or get me into law school for free.

My eyes were fixed on my red wine when Barbara started clinking her glass with her knife. She stood up and had to tug down the hem of her tacky dress to keep it from riding up and revealing what most people had already seen in the office. Her fake rack was so big and high up that I seriously worried she might suffocate. But alas, she spoke.

Everyone,” she said with warm gratitude, “I sincerely want to thank each and every one of you for your outstanding dedication and hard work at Greene and Collman. Having such exceptional individuals on our team truly means the world to me. I hope you all enjoy the rest of this wonderful evening. Thank you once again for everything."

The table erupted in a chorus of claps and excitement. I slapped my palms together a few times before chugging the rest of the wine in my glass. God, these people were insufferable. If only I knew then what I know now.

I motioned to the waiter for another glass of wine and continued watching the pompous assholes seated around me. They were all still eating, their forks scraping against the ceramic plates before shoveling food into their greedy gullets. Disgusting. Greg smacked his big lips together as he chewed his food like he treated his relationship…openly. But his wife had yet to know they were in an open relationship.

Trina, another dumb blonde from accounting, would scrape her teeth against her fork as she ate, like nails on a chalkboard. It made it feel like hives were erupting all over my body. I didn’t know how much longer I could sit here and look at these belligerent fools. I just hoped the waiter would return quickly enough before I crashed out.

The waiter finally returned, setting the glass in front of me with a polite smile. The wine sloshed as it landed, red crawling up the sides of the bowl before settling. I didn’t thank him. I didn’t pick it up either. I just stared at it, my empty plate pushed slightly away from me like evidence.

“Did you even like the duck?” Trina asked suddenly.

The table went quiet—not the awkward kind, but the kind where everyone was listening. Waiting. I looked up and saw their eyes on me, curious in that way people get when they remember you’re an outsider but can’t quite recall why you’re here.

“It was fine,” I said.

Barbara tilted her head, lips pursed. “You finished awfully fast. Must be nice to still have that metabolism.” A few people laughed. Greg snorted into his napkin.

I smiled. Or at least I think I did.

“Where’d you say you went to law school again?” someone asked—Greg’s wife, I think. She said it like she was asking where I parked.

I told her.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.”

Barbara laughed then. Not cruelly. Not kindly either. Just… comfortably. “Well, they can’t all be Ivy League, right?”

More laughter. Easy. Earned. Like it belonged to them.

I glanced down at my plate again. Empty. Scraped clean. Nothing left to take in.

The waiter hovered nearby, waiting for a nod, permission to pour more wine. I finally lifted the glass and took a slow sip. Let it sit on my tongue. Let it burn.

They’d finished eating now, too—forks resting, napkins folded, bellies full. Smiling. Satisfied.

That was the moment it happened.

Not when they laughed. Not when they spoke.

I looked around at the half-eaten meals, and no one noticed I’d already been done for a long time.

The waiter began clearing plates, porcelain stacking softly, and the scraping suddenly became too loud. Mine had already been taken. Nothing was left but silverware and the wine glass, half-full now, sweating against the tablecloth.

I set my fork down carefully.

“Barbara,” I said, smiling as I lazily turned my knife, “I heard you and—” I gestured toward Sam, the blade stopping inches from his sleeve, “—have been getting close.”

A blink. A laugh that came half a second too late.

“Oh, please,” Barbara said, waving a hand. “We’re just collaborating.”

Sam’s ears turned red.

I winked. “Of course. Collaboration can be very… intimate.”

The laughter didn’t come this time.

I turned my attention to Trina, who was suddenly very interested in her napkin. “Harvard, right?” I asked. “That’s where you went?”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

“Huh.” I tilted my head. “I’ve read your reports. Thorough, I guess. Just didn’t strike me as Ivy League. Who wrote your recommendation letter again?”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

Greg shifted in his chair. I didn’t even look at him before speaking. “And Greg—how’s the open relationship going?” I swirled the wine in my glass. “Your wife is still not aware she’s participating?”

The color drained from his face.

Someone cleared their throat. Someone else laughed weakly, like this was a joke they didn’t get yet.

Barbara’s smile had hardened now. “Okay,” she said. “What is this?”

I looked around the table. At their empty plates. Their wiped mouths. Their satisfaction.

“Oh,” I said softly. “I just figured since we’re all done eating, we could finally be honest.” I met their eyes, daring them to challenge me, and felt a quiet power swell within.

Silence.

I set the knife down beside where my plate had been. The space before me felt vast. Finished.

“I’m full,” I added.

And that’s when they realized I wasn’t asking questions.

I was taking inventory.

I lifted the glass and drained it in one long pull. The wine burned going down, sharp and satisfying. I tipped the glass forward and let the last of it spill onto the tablecloth, red blooming across the white like a careless accident.

No one laughed.

I stood, smoothed my jacket, and glanced once more at the space where my plate had been. Empty. Cleared long before the rest.

“Alright,” I said, cheerful, easy. “This was fun.”

A pause.

“See you Monday,” I said. I winked as I pushed the chair back in and looked at their shocked, stupid plastic faces.

Then I walked away while they sat there, suddenly aware that some dinners don’t end when the plates are cleared.

Some end when someone’s finished holding back.