The huge dinner table is set. The party is on. Knives are flashing, forks are digging, tongues are rolling. There is barbecue. Here's pork. And some beef. Is that a rib? Is that a leg? But what animal is that made of, she asks. It doesn't matter, they say. Just eat it. It's good. No? You don't want it? Try something. Here, try a chicken breast. It's soft. If not, get some turkey. Here, c'mon take it. Put some pepper. Why? It's hard to cut? Use a knife. Cut it, tear it, pull it apart, swallow it down.

I can't, she says. Why? It's barbecue! Have fun! Don' be shy. See, the chicken wings are juicy. And red. Red with blood or topping sauce, she asks. Don' know, they say and bite at it. They forget her after a while. She sits there, and looks about the table with hungry yet restricted eyes.

Jokes are made, memories are shared, bonds are made, but the lamb is torn. Torn with delicacy. Torn with knives, forks, bony hands and neat napkins. The mirth and slaughter goes by and by.
Finally, she slides her wrist across the table, the fingers seem to steal a bread piece that came as a side dish. All the side dishes are sitting untouched on the table. She gathers them. She applies a layer of green salad and butter to make a two bread piece sandwich. And without any knives, forks or napkins, she grapples with the sandwich and takes a bite.

And now the others stare at her, in wonder.