Dainty Ladybug Sandwich

She gives me a sassy knowing dare me grin as she begins to devour her ladybug sandwich. I watch her crown nod up and down in rhythmic quiet as she eats in gargantuous bites. In fascinated horror, I try to imagine taking my turn, and pretending a normalness. I know what will happen if I balk in any way, even a blink, at partaking of the country’s delicacy. I dare not offend, knowing I had better gobble mine down in gloriously grateful gulps. The others in the hall have stopped eating to watch me, they are nearly silent now. We all listen to the queen’s exaggerated chomping and gulping, meant to bully, and they do. It would be a giant mistake to insult her majesty with close-minded ways. It is only a lady bug sandwich. She gives me an almost imperceptible nod. It is my turn to make this dish look enormously delicious. The masses are watching. Retching would be the largest insult, maybe punishable by death. Not wanting to add a second of insult to their culture’s delicacy, I pick up my sandwich, picturing potato chips. Salty, delicious, tiny bits of potato chips, I tell my mind. Only potato chips. And lady bugs! My mind yells. I stop chomping, suddenly fearful. My mind is betraying me. I already have acid reflux. I wait in horror As my delicious sandwich begins to rise, suddenly, and with a horrible feeling of dread. The guards move forward with their machetes, waiting.