walking mirage

The guests are horrified to find that I have replaced my gas range with a dielectric oven, and yet they are transfixed. They can't tear themselves away from watching me use the dielectric oven, nervously clawing at their faces as I slide the dish in, muttering to themselves and each other. They beg me not to, tell me I don't have to use that thing, cry out in anguish as I energize it and the probes are smoothly pressed into and through the meal. Later, listlessly scattered around the living room, trying to drive the image of what they've seen out of their minds with alcohol and half-hearted conversation, they ask me: "Why?" And I tell them: "It cooks faster"