“You sure like green beans. Don’t you, Olivia?” Shannon asked.
Olivia looked around the table of adults and squirmed as she stacked pieces of green beans onto her fork. “They’re okay. For vegetables.”
“I didn’t like vegetables when I was little either. Not even green beans,” Shannon confessed.
Nora pointed her fork at her son. “Jeff would always eat his veggies. That was the rule if he wanted to have dessert.”
The safety of green bean talk didn’t mitigate the banality, which gave dinner the tone of a surrealist play. Taryn considered shoving a green bean up her nose. How far would she have to shove it to put herself out of her misery? She speared a bean, and it flopped on her fork. Too limp. Asparagus. That’s what she needed to end it all.
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