Palate Cleanser

It was the chicken piccata— zested to confession, plated like a bribe— they'd barely had a taste. Your favorite patron pulled a face, asked who cooked it, then quietly slid the plate into the trash. God, you’d have howled, ugly-laughed into your wine, called it an injustice of capers, made a chart demonstrating the salt-to-spite ratio. I reached for my phone— reflex, tongue licking spit from a lip. Then I laughed hard at the way the joke curled back, both of us plated wrong. Me, for serving in your absence. You, for going off-menu.