Memes by – https://www.instagram.com/chronicallycandidmemes?igsh=MWF6c3o0MmxyNDc4bA==
A Review
Of a bloody shocking Dinner Party A short story by Marilyn Tuna
She was seated at the far left of a questionably dressed dinner table — paper plates and champagne glasses curiously filled with wine. This was the very last place she wished to be at that moment. Irrelevant of that fact she sat tall and proud, pretending to be happy, but inside she was in DEEP agony, her arm strapped to her chest and burning with pain. She was surrounded by people she barely knew, if at all. Her name was Hannah. By her side sat her husband, whose friends had invited them to this dinner.
All the effort she could muster had gone into simply getting to this damn dinner. Makeup hid the pain that leaked out from behind her eyes, and a fake smile masked the rest. Eating unknown foods in large groups always filled her with anxiety—an anxiety made worse by the question of whether the meal would trigger a spiral of dreadful pain. Today the feeling was stronger than ever. Something was not quite right. Unfortunately, she was not far off the mark.
The dull conversation flowed, nothing sparking her interest—besides the stabbing pain in her left shoulder. Not even a sip of wine made this social situation half a percent better. After a few hours, the pain became too much. She was sweating, struggling to breathe. Gently, she took her husband’s hand and looked into his eyes.
“Darling, I need to go. I’m so sorry, but I can’t take much more.”
He was happy to accompany his wife home to rest, and politely informed the host of the situation, as any well-mannered guest would. But the host—a woman of fragile grace and cheap pretensions—decided this simply would not do. As though time slowed, she took another swig of wine from her champagne glass and launched a tacky, personal attack on the woman seated at the far left.
Looking directly at Hannah, she loudly announced to all the guests that Hannah was “NOT NORMAL.”
“You spend too much time in the hospital—it’s not normal. And all those photos—it’s just not normal.”
Hannah sat tall, took two deep breaths, and replied simply:
“Define normal.” Hanna took a moment to deliver a daring smile knowing her opponent was in over her head.
She had faced this kind of weaponization of her incurable chronic illness before—but curiously, never from a woman she had once considered a friend. Perhaps it was just too much cheap wine spilling from her dragon’s breath. Or perhaps it was something more was about to rear its ugly head?
The host, both ignorant and stupid in percentages still undecided, had chosen to publicly shame Hannah in front of strangers, seemingly to claw at some illusion of power. To this day, I struggle to understand why such misogynistic behavior came from a woman.
When confronted with Hannah’s blunt request to define “normal,” the host faltered, offering only a blank stare. Then she switched tactics, sneering at Hannah’s art—her photography, her self-portraits taken mid-endo flare, her residency work, her deeply personal documentation.
Hannah met her attack head-on:
“Hospital admissions are my normal. I’ve had to cultivate my life that way. You have to find peace in the endless merry-go-round that is endometriosis—or else you’ll go absolutely insane. So yes, the hospital is my normal. And my art? Well, some people just don’t have good taste.”
The host, left with no weapons, muttered only, “I’m not sure what else to say.”
Hannah shrugged, frowned, and gave the faintest shake of her head.
“I think you’ve said enough.”
It was pointless to waste any more words on a drunk, misogynistic creature intent on tearing her down.
She stood tall, smiled, and graciously said her goodbyes. After all, two wrongs don’t make a right—and good manners would get her out the door faster. She had advocated enough for her host to use the last of her two remaining brain cells to recognize the ridiculousness of the moment.
Hannah will never truly know why she was subjected to such an unsolicited attack. But she does know this: she won’t ever be returning for another boring dinner party with paper plates and cheap wine disguised as champagne.
By MTuna
marilyntuna.art 