Tagliatelle

A Story by ColdSpiral

A light snack

'Waiter'

I stare down at my dinner.

It stares back at me. I clear my throat, if only to avoid the silence. The place is dead.

'Waiter'

Hope triumphs over experience as I call again, eyes fixed on my plate. There is the slightest of noises, a breeze, as the waiter floats over to me.

'Sir?'

I look up to see a grey face flat with indiffrence. I gesture vaguely at my plate, the unspeakable thing that sits, unhidden, overtly impinging on my meal.

'Is it not to Sir's liking?' he asks, all pompous like I've blamed him for the decor. I look back at my plate. The pasta is soft and appetizing; the sauce vibrant and rich; even the garnish looks succulent; but half-buried in the tagliatelle, all varnished handle and shining metal, the meat cleaver protrudes agressively.

'Sir?'

It's obvious, how could he not notice?

'Er,' I begin, before I notice the sauce spreads too high up the blade, is smeared across the handle. There is sauce splashed across the waiter's pinstripe vest.

'Cleaver?' I manage - choked suddenly. The waiter looks appalled.

'Dreadfully sorry, sir' he replies, taking the cleaver from my plate - the pasta makes a sucking noise as the steel is released - and swinging the blade calmly into my back.

'Some people,' the waiter mutters as he walks back to the kitchen, 'simply no manners at all'.