He pushed the prosciutto across the table (a finely grained specimen of oak). For the moment, a hand blended with the prosciutto; the two became one in the coitus of time and angle of sight; a blink codified the man and the meat, and yet the prosciutto remained on the white, glazed plate after the removal of the hand; in the man’s face were microfissures much like the plate and its thin veneer. The salt within the prosciutto caused small beads of excretion; and the man wiped his face; the lipids blended without a sound. Across the table (a finely sanded specimen of oak), awaited another dish of red beet, once bled, now willing to be passed around.
The napkin, leafy and draped across his lap, was then folded and refolded, twisted, and used; no one else shared knowledge of these intimate doings; the napkin was a part of an exotic dining set bought on sale several years ago. Green, a Kermit-green, appealed to the man due to its luckluster demeanor, his favorite color; though blue, a certain shade found in a sky, the one passing overhead—if one was to have a sunroof—it, that shade of blue, vied for his attention and imagination at this moment, a detail that shimmered rectangular against a project of brown leaves. The man felt lonely despite the colors that were almost palatable.
He gazed passed over the other objects in the dining room to the portraits on the wall—most consisted of thick oils and banal hues, swirled from the palette of a faceless interloper. Mother’d say the soul cannot be captured by a mere painting; it takes a photograph; there were no photographs on the walls, just a thin, white wallpaper with a wisteria motif; the adhesive paper held a certain delicacy, enough repose to catch finger smudges by the door frame—yellowed-markers of habitation. The man again reached for the prosciutto in need of a last nibble; he dwelled on the presence of the oak table, a very fine specimen, polished by it labor and secrets withheld; he swallowed.