Sushi

“Raw fish is not my thing.”

“It’s sushi, there’s a difference.”

“To you, maybe.” She eyed the bite-sized circles of nori and rice, the pink of the tuna glaring back at her in defiance. He had ordered while she was in the bathroom and now the little uncooked seacreatures were looking back at her like so many pairs of eyes. And they were so pretty, which added an extra degree of creepiness to the entire meal.

Across the table, Oren was eyeing her just as critically as the sushi, his eyebrows lowered darkly. He made it a job to make her try new things; the problem was he usually chose food that she already found absolutely abhorrent. Like sushi. “Just try it, Baidya. The worst thing that happens is that you don’t like it.”

“No,” she argued, feeling the beginnings of an ‘I’m-more-stubborn-than-you’ argument coming on, “the worst thing that happens is that I eat some and become violently ill in the midst of a very nice restaurant that I rather like when I’m not presented with food I didn’t order. That’s the worst outcome.” She was being dramatic, of course.

“You’re being dramatic.” Ah, love of her life. Bless his rat-bastard heart.

The waiter approached them cautiously, obviously sensing the danger eminating off the couple before he decided it was in the best interest of the restaurant to quell the brewing storm. “Is the sushi not to your liking?” He was young, smiling, but Baidya could see the comprehension behind a bright facade. She forced her own smile.

“My friend meant the sushi for himself.” She could see Oren turning red out of her peripheral vision. The waiter was wise enough to keep himself angled towards the less volatile half of the table.

“Is there something else I could put in for you?”

“Yakiniku would be lovely, thank you. Don’t worry yourself over the sushi, my friend will eat it.” Her smile this time was acid and directed fully at Oren, who looked as though there should be blood streaming from his ears for all that had rushed to his face. The waiter was gone before she could take another breath, leaving the two alone.

Oren was choosing his words wisely, eyes averted to his plate and the pair of chopsticks dangling from his fingers since the conversation began. “It would not be such a crime to just try it, Baidya.”

“You say that…”

The chopsticks set so forcefully upon the plate she was worried it would break. He rose in one fluid movement, towering over the restaurant with all six-foot-four inches of his height and stalked off, muttering about the restroom. She probably should have felt chastised, but looking at the squishy rawness made her stomach turn just to think that it was meant for her palate.

Still…

She prodded at the smallest piece she could find, picking it up with her own chopsticks as though handling an armed bomb. It looked so harmless…

Oh, God…

She had only been slightly dramatic about getting ill.

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~ by eeratka on February 2, 2011.