The Dinner Party: Write a Book Next Time

The room was a canvas of polished surfaces: marble floors, sleek chandeliers, and a long dining table adorned with an assortment of crystal glasses and gleaming silverware. Twelve guests were seated, each spaced precisely as though the seating chart had been reviewed three times to ensure symmetry.

The energy was as stiff as the starch in their tailored suits and as forced as the laughter that occasionally floated over the clinking of forks against plates. This was no casual gathering. It was one of those dinners — the kind where the unspoken game was to out-mention, out-impress, and outlast everyone else without cracking the façade of civility.

Most of the guests played along. The woman on the far left leaned back slightly, pretending to be engrossed in her glass of sparkling water. Another gentleman drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, his expression polite but clearly disengaged. A third guest adjusted his cufflinks with unnecessary precision, glancing at his watch as if counting the seconds until he could leave without it being rude.

And then there was him. The guest seated two chairs from the host, speaking with an air of self-importance so dense it practically hung over his head like a halo of misplaced confidence.

“Of course,” he said, his voice cutting through the room like a poorly timed toast, “when I decided to launch that initiative, it wasn’t for the accolades. It was about creating impact. You understand, right?”

He laughed — short, clipped, and entirely too loud. The sound echoed in the silence that followed. A few guests nodded, their smiles thin and obligatory.

Undeterred, he leaned forward, gesturing expansively with his hands. “I mean, when the Times called for a profile, I told them, ‘Listen, it’s not about me. It’s about the work.’ That’s what it’s always been about for me — the work, the principle.”

The woman with the sparkling water glanced sideways at her neighbor, raising an eyebrow. The man checking his watch gave the faintest shake of his head.

He continued, undaunted. Story after story, laugh after laugh, his words spilled across the table like a glass drink tipped over by accident but left unattended.

And then, it happened.

A voice broke through, slow and deliberate. “Damn.”

Heads turned. All eyes shifted toward the source.

The woman, seated directly across from the man, had leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on him with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“Damn,” she repeated, letting the word hang in the air. Then she laughed — soft at first, but it grew, bubbling up like she couldn’t contain it even if she tried.

The man froze mid-sentence, clearly unsure of what to do.

She composed herself just enough to speak. “Bro,” she said, her voice light but unmistakably pointed, “if you wanted all of us to know your life story, you could’ve just written a book. Seriously, bring us the copies next time. It’ll save everyone some time.”

The table erupted. The laughter spread like wildfire, breaking through the tension that had held the room captive. Even the host couldn’t hold back, covering their mouth with a napkin as their shoulders shook.

The man blinked, visibly thrown off his pedestal. “I… wasn’t trying to — ”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted, raising a hand. “Don’t even try to explain. It’s fine. Just next time, let us know ahead of time so we can preorder.”

The laughter doubled. The man fell silent, his face a mixture of embarrassment and confusion.

For the first time that evening, the room felt lighter. The woman took a casual sip of her water, turning her attention back to her plate, as if the moment had never happened.

And just like that, the dinner became bearable.