How little interest my lasagna has aroused!
She said these words certainly disappointed. She had prepared that dish for the party, for her friends to taste it, very much hoping them to like it, to enjoy it, to show their sincere enthusiasm for its quality. But those expectations never materialized and most of the baked pasta she went through the trouble to cook was left untouched. By the end of the party the large bowl containing the lasagna was clearly visible at the middle of the big table around which a small group of people sat and chattered. She was well aware of that, the meal intact at the table, the very reason of her growing shame. She couldn't help muttering those words, aloud yet mostly grumbled to herself, as if by giving voice to her thoughts the embarrassment and disappointment she felt could be more justified. As if that could spur some reaction and move someone to comfort her. And then, now that the party was over, she would have to go through the humiliating scene of taking the lasagna home with her, back to her apartment, to eat it alone or in company of her family. Or even worse, she may have to throw it into the waste bin. It sadly dawned on her that this seemed the most likely outcome of the food she went through the trouble to cook, for her friends to happily devour it.
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