Sara Sutterlin

I am a very bad dinner guest. Chopping off my hand with
a butcher knife! (My elbows did not touch the table
once.) A bloodied tablecloth, a phone vibrating in my
pocket. "Why are my hands shaking?" I ask with disgust
for my own body as I attempt to shove the tip of a key
into my nostril. He places a hand on my knee and I shake
off his affection. I wipe off the backwash from the rim of
my wine glass with a disinterested finger while I nod
politely; EVERYONE'S GETTING PUBLISHED NOW!
EVERYONE'S GETTING FINGERED NOW! I cross and
uncross my legs. I turn to him and ask him if he thinks
they'll still be able to re-attach my hand if we wait until
after dessert.