At the Buffet

     I think I love the way melted chocolate ripples more than the ripples of water. It's thicker and flows slower, with its narcissistic own sheen of dark browns. It piles on top of itself selfishly, gentle ribbons of chocolate upon chocolate, but only for a moment, before it melts into a puddle again. The fountain twirls it, spinning it into glory. I watch intensely through the plastic.

     "Want some?" Caught off guard, I stutter and nod. The woman who spoke takes a rainbow skewer of fruit and dips it under the fountain, expertly coating it as though it's an art. She smiles, as does one with experience does when introducing another to something new. 

     Hours later, I approach again, and timidly ask for another. Please. Something flits across her face, maybe exhaustion or annoyance, and without returning my smile, she dips it quickly and hands it to me, seemingly glad to be rid of it. I'm left confused, wondering what happened in between, and when, that let her start hating chocolate.