They just sat there, tiny slivers, stark and unabashadly mingling
throughout oddly-shaped pink chunks with flaky shreds dangling from the ends, as if they were all at some obscene dinner party where something just wasn’t quite right.  And here and there were round knuckle-sized ones, fresh and wet with a smelly juice, an eerie, whispering omen to anyone approaching, “where’s my finger I need a finger where is it?”  This wasn’t happening - what were we supposed to do now?  Ignore them? We couldn’t just ignore them.  What could we do? We’d been waiting all day, planning and positing methods, following steps throughout to make sure everything was in place, and now we stared, shocked, stunned into hesitation and quizzical looks.

I picked it up, turning it slowly, finding it finally. “Traditional-Style Salmon - ‘The naturally-occurring slivered and round bones in this can are totally edible and a great source of calcium!’  Uh-uh - no way.  That’s gross.”

“Screw it,” he said. “Chipotle?”