If she were a food, she wouldn’t be anything saucy. Everyone else at this dinner party was claiming chocolate lava cake, biscuits and gravy, Moroccan lamb stew. Sage and butternut squash tamales with spicy pumpkin salsa, one white dude said. Everyone was mmming and oohing, tasting the imaginary food while they nibbled on crackers, working up a frenzy of desire for the meal to come. Fettuccini alfredo. Burnt caramel sauce. Raspberry filling.
She was going to be something with no salsa, no butter, no
melted cheese. Definitely no molten chocolate exploding from her insides. Nothing
about her dripped, oozed, coated the tongue. Nothing about her was rich or
comforting. Everything inside her was neat, minimal, functional. She knew they
wouldn’t like it, but she couldn’t lie.
Brown rice, she
said, when it was her turn.
The tamales guy rolled his eyes, said, Please.
No, she’s right,
said their host, looking her up and down. She’s
totally brown rice.
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