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...
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