olives

I dragged Sandra over to the dusty chair, gently pressing her shoulders down, encouraging her to sit. She did, looking around. It was useless; the blindfold still existed. Grabbing the tray of taste tests, I picked one at random, labeled 13. I looked inside, and grabbed a utensil appropriate for use with the substance. Scooping it out of the cup, I tapped Sandra’s shoulder. She opened her mouth to ask me what, and, as quick as I could, I darted in with the spoon.

Sputtering, Sandra tore off the blindfold, without much success. I laughed at the faces she made as she tasted the food. It was olives, and she hated those with a passion. But she didn’t have to know that I willingly fed her olives. She could know that it was something that tasted bad. That was all she needed to know.

She glared at me, silently exciting the room to wash her mouth out. I followed her like a happy puppy, jumping around and laughing. For some reason I don’t think she was too happy with me, but what could she do about it? She was the one that decided we were best friends, not me. She should’ve expected this.