Something in The Walls: The Banquet

One hall. One ceiling. One man who has lived in the loft longer than they have owned the floor. Downstairs the court is already loud. Paper crowns, plastic snouts, a roast that sounds like love if you’re related and like inventory if you’re not. Upstairs the trusses remember every laugh. The banquet sub thrums under the gravy. Cavities hold the soft places people stop looking at. They want a bigger bit this year. Something that uses the whole room. He gives them one. Tonight you’re in the hall while the preferred tenants learn the difference between a photograph and an exit. No credits. No lecture. Just the room.