Betrayal and disgust.
These are the words that come to mind when I think about how he looked at me.
At first words failed him. The disgust occupied his tongue. Pure revulsion prevented him from putting to words the hatred that he felt.
He should have seen it coming. Every night it is the same dance. The same assault is made, typically with the same results, and though tonight had been different, it should not have been unexpected.
His voice, weak, wavering: “Yucky.”
Slowly he began the long chore of picking each offending morsel from the plate. This substance would be tolerated on the table, but not on the plate. No, not on the plate.
Corn, the yellow vegetable of my victory. It may not be the most nutritious of vegetables, but it counts.
I made griddle cakes, filled with whole bits of corn.
Gabe ate one, and was starting his second when he made that vile discovery.
He had been tricked.
That bitter taste which repulsed him so, it was not the corn.
It was defeat.
Finally, a defeat.
