but a flesh wound

Steam rises, curling over the edge of porcelain. The maître d' shifts his weight, a polished smile, gestures toward the plate— a delicacy, a masterpiece, a moment of triumph.

The chef, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp, flicks his wrist, thumb and fingers poised— a chef's kiss, a silent benediction.

Mr Creosote leans forward, belly a continent, hands trembling for conquest. A fork crashes through crème and crisp.

Chewing, swallowing, expanding— his breath thickens, his eyes roll, his body, unwilling, groans in protest. The maître d’ steps back. The air shifts.

A whisper of tension— something inevitable, irreversible, a gluttonous sun pulling everything into its orbit. Then, a pause, a flicker of realisation.

The chef, still watching, mouth twitching at the corner, wipes his hands on his apron, steps away from the blast zone.