All went well till I was left with almost nothing on my plate, and no intention of reloading it. Then I decided to have that tiny bit of chicken left on my plate. I pierced it with my fork. And then came a split second which extended for minutes. My fork made a loud noise as it hit the plate. The chicken was not chicken. It was gourd. It was a hard piece of gourd that refused to be pierced by my unsuspecting fork. It was a hard piece of fork which made no qualms about skidding away from my plate and make a beeline towards my left, leaving a streak of angry red behind it.
I closed my eyes, I waited for a reaction. Any reaction. I saw there was none. The man on the table next to me refilled his glass. The waiter came and asked to refill my plate. My table fellows continued their conversation. I looked down at my plate. It was empty.
After a while I circumspectly looked at the table next to mine - it had a beautiful level, single streak of red, not leaving the cloth at even one point, slimming down as it traversed around a foot-long journey. I wondered at what speed it must have sped me. I could not locate that errant gourd.
As for me, the sooner I could leave that place, the better I felt.
What would you do if you were me? And if you were the Man, perhaps not so dulled by alcohol?