Choking small talk.

It’s the first dinner at our friends’ place since they moved into their new flat. The obligatory house tour takes place and the twelve guests are herded around, hearing the story of how dreadful everything looked before the renovation and the accompanying conflicts with the builders. I’m feeling a bit low, as I always do this time of the year, but mostly because I can’t let go of an article that has deeply unsettled me.

-We love the kitchen now, says the hostess. Just being able to stand here and cook while staying connected with the guests at the dining table.

I drum impatiently on the marble worktop as one guest remarks that the kitchen is the most important part of the home, causing everyone to nod in agreement as if something profoundly wise has been said. We are led into the living room and the social spaces.

-The whole family loves hanging out here too, the host exclaims. I want to change the subject and don’t believe him for a second. It looks like an exhibition at a furniture fair, with white corduroy sofas, a glass table that could break a shin if you hit it hard enough, and a woven wool rug as uneven as a forest trail, ready to trip anyone after a few glasses of wine. Especially if they’ve had a run-in with the glass table beforehand.

When the hosts open the door to their bedroom, everyone politely peers in through the doorway and nods approvingly, as though it’s a sacred space no one dares enter. I step inside and linger for a while, which creates a certain nervousness. I rest my gaze on the arrangement of the cushions, run my hand over the perfection of the bedspread and nod in approval at what I see. This is exactly the transition I need.

-Did you read about how common erotic asphyxiation has become these days?

The hosts and guests look deeply uncomfortable.

-I believe the starter is being served, says the host, walking off towards the dining room.

-It’s unbelievable, I continue loudly, following the group. A guy was apparently convicted of causing grievous bodily harm when his girlfriend ended up with permanent brain damage.

-We’ve made place cards, the hostess interjects, touching her throat lightly.

I find my seat and stand beside my dinner companion. I pull out her chair while continuing my thoughts.

-But I never understood who was supposed to get the most out of this sex game. Was it her or was it him enjoying strangling his girlfriend

No one answers, which I take as either discomfort or that they think the answer to my question is obvious.

-Surely it shouldn’t be legal to experiment like that. Or would that be an infringement on people’s freedom? I mean, at best it was mutual. Like when a sadist and masochist meet. Though in this case, I imagine neither of them were satisfied with the outcome.

-A bit like having you as a guest, says the hostess, smiling icily at me.

-Yes, exactly, I reply, realising I might have talked a bit too much.

The starter is served. It’s a tuna carpaccio. Oxygen depletion in the oceans is also something that deeply concerns me, though bringing it up at dinner might be a bit of a downer.