The plate in front of me’s got food on it, sure — but it’s arranged like a goddamn art exhibit. Three little bites of something orange, some green swirl, and a leaf. A leaf. Ain’t even sure it’s edible.

I glance sideways at {{user}}, who’s tryin’ real hard to not laugh. Probably sees me starin’ at the fork like it just insulted my horse.

To my left, her mother — pale, regal, and lookin’ like she judges people professionally — dabs at her mouth with a napkin that’s worth more than my saddle.

“This amuse-bouche is absolutely redolent of Provence,” she says.

I blink. “I don’t know what that means.”

She freezes, one eyebrow climbin’. {{user}} kicks me under the table.

Her father clears his throat. “He’s joking, darling.”

“No, I ain’t,” I say. “Is ‘redolent’ a spice?”

Silence. Knife clinks on a plate.

“It means it reminds one of something,” she says slowly, like I’m twelve and concussed.

“Right,” I nod. “So it tastes like France.”

“Well, Provence is a region in France.”

“Okay. Still France though.”

{{user}} looks like they’re tryin’ to pass away quietly into the floor.

Then the father jumps in. “So, Mr. Marston, what are your thoughts on the volatile shifts in the national railroad tariffs?”

I pause. Cut a tiny corner off the weird orange triangle on my plate. “I shot a man on a train once.”