The Unwanted Guest

 He wasn’t supposed to be there — not really.

The kind of man who slips into a dinner party like a shadow, invited or not, instantly rearranging the room’s atmosphere. The host whispered his name with a strained smile.

At first, he was quiet, tracing circles on the rim of his glass, eyes watching like a predator humoring its prey. Polite laughter floated above the roast and the wine, chatter skimming over weather, work, holidays. Then someone mentioned the wine — “smooth, easy, crowd-pleasing.”

That was his opening.

“Smooth,” he said, voice cutting like glass. “Smooth is another word for neutered. It tastes like compromise. Like a grape that sold its soul to be liked by everyone and admired by no one.”

The table stuttered. A laugh here, a cough there. Eyes glanced to the host, searching for rescue. But the intruder had already found his rhythm.

He dismantled the evening’s small talk with surgical precision, moving from vineyards to politics, from politics to culture, from culture to the withering illusion that anyone present was actually in control of their lives. Half the table hung on every syllable, intoxicated. The other half wished desperately for silence.

By the time dessert arrived, the mood was thick, fragile. The waiter set down crème brûlée, a brittle shield of caramel over trembling custard. He tapped it once with his spoon, a smile ghosting across his face.

“A perfect metaphor,” he murmured. “A society built on comfort and convention, sweet on the surface, rotten underneath. You didn’t ask for this truth — but here it is, served with the wine.”

He had served them reality; the wine complimented the dessert. They smiled as if politeness were an anaesthetic, sipped as if nectar could dissolve conscience. Truth slid down like a bitter pill, swirled into decadent oblivion, its bite lingering despite every attempt at disguise.

They left with compliments on the food and no answers in their pockets — and the night agreed, in low, polite voices, to forget what could not be digested.

PS: This article was co-written with ChatGPT