On special occasions I like to sit at the children’s table. No one cares if I play with my food, push it about my plate, deliberately let the peas slide over the edge. The big table is life, the grown-ups too loud, consuming too much, exchanging secrets they regret having shared. Rough hands grab a breast or thigh, wine slipping down their chin, whores for the most delectable meat. When they are full it is time for grown up talk, educated conversation, try to keep it clean, it’s too humiliating to be asked to leave. They are fine if I sit at the small table, there are too many things that I remind them of.