Dennis ate in silence. What was there to say that hadn’t already been said? He chewed methodically, even rhythmically, timing his chews to a beat in his head. Disco-duck, disco-duck, out on the dance floor don’t give a fuck. Stacy sat across from him. What she was thinking was a mystery to him. He would have been surprised if he knew she was methodically, even rhythmically, killing him in her mind over and over again.
She hated how thoughtlessly he chewed, gulping down the meal she’d put time and effort into preparing as if it were tasteless gulag goulash. Her jaw clenched with the effort it took not to fly across the table and stab him to bloody death with her fork.
Disco-duck, disco-duck, out on the dance floor don’t give a fuck.
Was he humming under his breath while he ate? She stopped chewing and listened. Yes he was. As he scarfed up the meal he was humming some indistinguishable tune just audible over the disgusting sound of furious mastication.
“Stop that,” she growled.
He looked up for a moment in mid chew. “What?” he asked.
“Whatever song you’re singing to yourself while you eat, stop it.”
“Why? What do you care?”
“Because, like a thousand other things you do that I can’t stand, I’m going to butcher you at the table if you keep doing it.”
He nodded and started chewing again. Only this time, instead of humming, he started to sing with a mouthful of food. “Disco-DUCK, disco-DUCK, OUT on the DANCE floor don’t give FUCK!” He stared at her while he did this, particles of food flying from his mouth and onto the table.
Her hand gripped the fork so hard it hurt. She wanted, more than anything, to stab him in the mouth. Instead she forced herself to calmly rise from the chair and walk into the kitchen where she rinsed her plate and put it in the dishwasher.
This was done. There was no point in continuing a pretense. She’d contact her lawyer in the morning.
Sebastian Gregory: On the Written Path 