Fish
Atlanta, sadly, refuses to speak more on the matter of photography until my food is finished.
“Do not treat me like a child,” I grouse.
“You are a child,” she retorts.
“I just happen to be accidentally small,” I protest. And she… laughs.
“How? And do not say by genetics,” she writes, nonchalantly.
I huff. I do not know what “genetics” means; Allspeak cannot translate it well, like so many terms that she has been pouring out thus far; but I do know when I am laughed at. And this, when I was telling the truth.
Ignoring her laughing self, I tentatively pry apart the side of the fish dish that I ordered for myself with my eating knife, then dip a small chunk of its meat in the sauce which pools low on the platter. Before the morsel can reach my mouth, however, a dusky hand grasps my wrist and half-yanks it away.
I look up, meeting Atlanta’s shocked and angry glare.
“No knife near your face,” she types hurriedly with one hand, then practically shoves the cell phone’s screen in front of me.
I raise an eyebrow. “I eat with my knife, Atlanta.”
She refuses to budge, unfortunately.