Disclaimer: I don't own anything your recognize.
With their combined funds, Angel and Mimi had managed two courses, the first of which was accompanied by plates of tortillas and shredded cheese. It was Mark who asked, "Why the cheese and tortillas?"
"Did your mother never tell you not to film at the table?" Roger asked through a mouthful of tortilla.
"All the time," Mark replied, "why?"
Roger threw cheese at him. "That's why," he said.
Mark sulked. "Baby," he muttered, cleaning his lens.
"Me, or the camera?"
"Ooh, dinner and a show," Maureen commented.
Joanne rolled her eyes. "You'd think there'd be better comedians."
Collins reminded them, "You can't have dinner and a show without dinner." Bravely, he swallowed a spoonful of soup. Those not busy mocking or cleaning beloved possessions were treated to the sight of Collins' eyes growing far too large for their sockets. "Oh," he croaked, "that's why the cheese and tortillas."
Angel and Mimi collapsed against each other, hiding their faces each on the other's shoulder as they giggled helplessly.
Halfway through the second course, with candles lit more for aesthetics and environment than for function, and the crowding around the small table becoming so familiar that many would lie awake that night and touch the shoulders that ached for contact, the week-early Valentine's Feast felt like a true holiday. Mark found himself praying fervently kina-hora, kina-hora.
"This is better than Valentine's Day," Roger decided. "I hate all that."
"Why?" Angel asked, cocking her head to one side. An uncomfortably attentive silence encased the group.
Roger, you idiot, Mark thought angrily. Mimi and Angel decide to throw a party and you have to go and blunder into it with your hatred of everything! Why can you never be happy? Isn't anything enough? Half of him wanted to shriek the words at the top of his lungs. The other half beat down the desire, because Mark was a quiet boy and, more importantly, because Roger had said exactly those things as Mark forced him into the underground station, insisting that no one would mind the strange things Roger said.
"Because holidays are celebrations," Roger explained. "Commemorations, or important days… like you celebrate birthdays because you're celebrating the day a person came into the world. You're saying you're glad they did. Or on Christmas and Hanukkah, those are both miracles, right--right, Mark?"
Mark blushed. He hadn't wanted to get involved. "W-well," he stammered, "the oil did burn for eight nights…"
In the arrogant way only he could manage, Roger took this for agreement. "You see?" he said. "But all you do on Valentine's Day is give someone a card that says you love them. I think it's silly to set aside a day for that."
Angel opened her mouth to speak, closed it and blinked rapidly. Collins and Mimi glared at Roger. Now look what you've done! Painfully aware of this, Mark swooped to his friend's rescue in the only manner he could think of--by changing the subject. Concurrence would be false and offensive, disagreement a betrayal of Roger, so Mark asked, "What exactly is in these pies? They're really delicious." Joanne and Roger piped agreement.
"Oh," Angel said, reformatting her mood to fit the situation, "it's a traditional recipe from Wales."
Mimi nodded. "Apparently this is really popular over there. Pigeon pie!"
"Oh, Maureen's is vegetarian," Angel added quickly. "It's mostly mushrooms. We know you don't eat meat," she assured Maureen.
All around the table, the company struggled to hide their emotions. Joanne's face was a frozen mask of a vague, polite smile. Mark had his camera rolling and a half-chewed bolus pushed to the pocket of his cheek; Maureen looked as though she might be ill. Determined to show loyalty to his last, Collins forced himself to take another bite. He chewed painfully slowly. Roger looked from the others to his plate to Mimi and Angel, and began to grin.
"You absolute bastards!" he cried, smiling hugely. "Did you really feed us pigeon? Oh, and we fell for that…"
"We substituted chicken," Angel explained.
Very, very slowly, laughter rippled around the table. Collins laughed so hard he wept and spat a mouthful of pie into a napkin rather than choke on it. Embarrassed, the churning in her stomach not quite settled, Joanne forced a giggle. "You total idiot, you thought you were completely in with them," Mark babbled at Roger, who was laughing too hard to care. Mimi and Angel grinned at the huge success of their plans.
Kina-hora, kina-hora.
TO BE CONTINUED
Hanukkah-- the Festival of Lights, commemorating the miracle of a menorah blazing for eight night when after a battle only enough oil for one remained. It took eight days to make more oil, so… you get the idea. Today it's celebrated with a menorah (candelabra holding 9 candles), and at sundown (Jewish culture has a new day beginning at sundown rather than sunup) the candles are lit by touching a match or lighter to the shamus (pronounced shah-muss) candle and lighting each other candle off that, one more each day for eight days.
Kina-Hora-- (kine-a hoar-a) to ward off evil, like "knock on wood"
Kvell-- to experience pride, but for someone else's accomplishments, like the look on Collins' and Mark's faces when Roger showed up at support group, or my math tutor when I get a problem right (it's rare).