Bread and Wine
I am a prisoner. They mock me: Elegant room with beautiful paintings adorning the walls, full book shelves, a feather bed, soft linen sheets, and meals served three times daily. The meals are paraded in with the smells of every sort of delicacy imaginable, fine china, clean silverware, and a bottle of French wine. But when they unveil the food I find only empty air and no drops in the bottle. In time I have learned their game. Therefore, yesterday, when I discovered, much to my surprise, real bread upon my plate and wine in the cup I kindly told the server, “Thank you sir but I am really not that hungry.” I choose to die with dignity. That is my undoing.
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