Dinner
by The Fanfiction Nymph & A Dear Hobbit Friend
The Great Dining Hall of Minas Tirith. Enormous table set for two, with a pair of chairs facing each other from across the great lengths. Food set in between, impossibly out of reach of those sitting in the chairs. Arwen on one side, plate piled high, stuffing her face. Aragorn on the other end with a yogurt, salad, and mineral water.
Silence. The sound of Arwen scarfing down food; bits of potato fly across the table and hit Aragorn on the head. He sniffles, whips it off, continues eating, until:
ARAGORN. Huh-hum.
ARWEN. What is it now?
ARAGORN. Nothing.
ARWEN. It’s always something with you, isn’t it? Well, if it’s nothing, why did you say something? Can’t you see I’m eating!?
ARAGORN. Yes, I can see you are eating.
ARWEN. Good, well at least you don’t need glasses or anything. Heaven knows, next you’ll be wearing fannel pajamas.
ARAGORN. Would you notice?
ARWEN. What’s that supposed to mean.
ARAGORN. Well, I guess I could say “nothing”, but then you’d have a hissy fit. So I guess it means . . . something.
ARWEN stands up, slams her fork and glass on the table.
ARWEN (food spitting from her mouth). I DO NOT HAVE HISSY FITS!
He dodges a fork.
ARAGORN. No, you don’t. Never.
ARWEN. That’s what I was saying! You don’t listen to me! YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME! UH! I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO MY FATHER! STUPID SMELLY MORTAL!
He dodges a spoon.
ARAGORN. Excuse me? Do we have to go over this again?!
ARWEN. Are you using a tone? DON’T YOU DARE USE A TONE WITH ME.
ARAGORN (sighs). I’LL USE A TONE IF I WANT TO!
He ducks a glass of water, and several plates.
ARAGORN. IT’S NOT MY FAULT I’M ALLERGIC TO ELVES!
ARWEN. Yeah, well, I’m sure it’s your fault you break out in hives!
ARAGORN. NOT ACCORDING TO THE DOCTOR!
ARWEN. The doctor’s over 700,000 years old! He’s bound to have gone senile by now!
ARAGORN. Well that’s just tough for both of us, isn’t it! DAH! GAAAH! Er!
ARWEN. I NEED MALE COMPANIONSHIP.
ARAGORN. GET A DOG!
ARWEN. Well, I have you, don’t I?
ARAGORN collects his dinning ware.
ARAGORN. I will working in my office if you need me.
He leaves to go.
ARWEN. Well, I’m having daddy and grammy over to dinner tomorrow!
ARAGORN. BITE ME!
ARWEN. ALREADY HAVE! ENCORE!
ARAGORN glares at her.
ARWEN. Don’t you dare look at me like that!
ARAGORN. Why? Are you . . . frightened?
ARWEN looks confused.
ARWEN. . . . yes . . .
ARAGORN looks embarrassed. He sits down again. They continue eating in silence.
Finally:
ARAGORN. Uhm.
ARWEN. What?
ARAGORN. Could you please pass the potato salad?
She leaps onto the table, sending food and plates flying. Draws Throng-Cleaver from under the table and wields it madly.
ARWEN. IF YOU WANT IT, COME AND CLAIM IT!
ARAGORN. I WILL!
He looks around for Narsil; no go. Looks at spoon. Digs out a gob of yogurt and flings it at her via the spoon.
ARWEN screams like a banshee when the yogurt barely misses her face.
ARAGORN laughs histerically.
ARWEN growls and kicks a bowl of salad at him. He dodges bowl and it shatters behind him.
ARAGORN. HAA! YOU MISSED! YOU MISSED! NEYAH! NEYAH!
A gob of potato salad hits him square in the face.
ARAGORN. GAAAH!
He jumps on the table and runs at her, armed with a butter knife.
ARAGORN. ANDURIL! ANDURIL!
She flips in the air yelling a Xena warcry. She lands off the table and behind him, grabs the table cloth, and pulls. Everything on the table, including Aragorn, streams off the table.
ARAGORN. OWIE! DAAHR.
ARWEN laughs.
ARAGORN. Mommy. Ow.
He whimpers. [Author Intrusion: most unbecoming of an king!]
ARWEN stops laughing for a moment.
ARWEN. Oh, my poor Dunadan, what have I done? Are you hurt?
ARAGORN. Only my pride (whimper: a beat smile I only wanted potato salad . . .
ARWEN scoops up what’s left of the potato salad and offers it to him.
ARAGORN. That’s just gross. It’s been on the floor. Do you know what’s been on the fl--
She shoves it in his face.
ARWEN. WELL YOU CAN’T SAY I DIDN’T TRY.
THE END.
SORTA.
WELL NO, NOT REALLY.
POOR SODS.
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