We had a frozen dinner relationship.
You were hastily chosen in a moment of weakness, poor judgement attributed to low blood sugar and a gurgling stomach. You seemed appealing enough through the layers of foggy glass and fluorescent grocery store glare, arranged so artfully on the plate with a flourish of sliced fruit and a glass of wine tucked beside you.
I tossed you in my cart without even a cursory glance at your calorie content or nutritional value. You fit my mood and need at the moment and I wasted no time sacking you up.
It was only later, in the seclusion of my kitchen, that I peeled back the plastic film and saw you for what you actually were, a frozen slab and pitiful clump, unappetizing and unrecognizable compared to the picture on the front of your cardboard carton. I felt a stab of disappointment as I poked you with a skeptical fork.
Do I feel swindled? Yes.
Did you prevaricate? Equivocate? Fabricate?
Well... no. No. And no.
You never pretended to be anything other than yourself. I'm the one who sought fulfillment from a box. I'm the one who thought I could transform a TV dinner into a soulmate with a dash of salt and a heap of imagination. I overlooked those two tiny words inscribed on your label: serving suggestion.