Feast of the Passions
The table was piled high with all manner of delicacies: roast beasts with perfectly spiced crusts, gluttonous desserts, airy bread, and handmade pastries. He arrived with an appetite, but barely picked at his food. Anthony would have to wait if he wanted to gorge himself on what he truly hungered for. The husband was to leave that night. All was accounted for.
“Excuse me,” she said, then hurried from the room in the direction of her child’s agonized wailing.
“It’s my daughter’s feeding time,” the husband offered amicably, “Thank for coming. Liana was happy to entertain and you’ve been a perfectly pleasant guest.”
“Of course,” Anthony replied without making eye contact. The man didn’t interest him. He wasn’t here for that. They’d barely noticed each other, he thought. “So... what do you do...?”
“I bank misery.”
Force a laugh. Smile. Appreciate the joke.
“So you’re in finance then...? Well, that’s a perfectly boring subject!”
Deflect. Ask him about something that will get him talking until he runs out of time and has to leave.
“And what do you do for fun...?” Anthony asks casually without even looking up from his plate.
“Murder insolent fuckers who come into my house and look at my wife as you have.”
