Immersion

It's my 1st mass in months, in the formal dining room of a prominent family whose name's spelling I'm not so certain -- a proactive stance of apathy (-joa-? or -jua-?). They have an altar set up in 1 corner, beside w/c the matriarch sits alone on what I'm calling a throne. The rest of the family, some seemingly sleepily just out of bed at 4PM, sit at the dining table. There are 2 seats off to the side, complete w/ cushioned benches to kneel on during that time of the mass when kneeling is expected. I sit on 1 of those chairs, my boss on the other, like the 2 accused of some sort of sin. After mass the matriarch excuses herself; we all touch noses w/ her in the way of the eskimo for reasons lost on me. It's funny, but I suppose there's a cute endearment in that had I been a part of the clan, had I been taught to do so since childhood. I guess. As the matriarch leaves, the food starts coming out in trays from the kitchen, carried by servants in white uniforms while dogs in diapers run about in the cold of the air-conditioning. Outside a shirtless gardener trims the grass beside the pool & I disturb myself w/ suspicions of Wisteria Lane as the youngest of the family's women sits across from me. 

The shallow perks of work allow me overpriced coffee as well as a seat next to a large mestizo of an elderly man w/ a huge gold necklace & slicked-back hair. He doesn't say anything the whole time, though I find myself reading into the nature of his smile -- whether made out of kindness or inspired by Tony Soprano-like intentions. I'm in a meeting & Manchego cheese & Serrano ham are passed around, servants whispering into my ear, asking what drink I'd prefer. Of course I just say water, not wanting to push my luck as I smirk at the sight of a gregarious family enjoying the life -- but still pushing aside prissy sandwiches & veggie canapes & making do w/ the obligatory dab of brie, but preferring instead to mouth down burnt longganisa & handfuls upon handfuls of good old greasy wanton crisps.