He stood at the doorway, strengthening his resolve and swallowing down the angry outburst that had the potential to spew forth from him like so much acrid bile on the occasion of, yet another, holiday gathering.
He knew no matter how sumptuous the fare, how festive the music, how amiable the conversations, beneath it all would be the stench of judgmental disdain, self-righteous sanctimony and unbridled hypocrisy. It would waft about him in a sickening miasma no less disgusting than would be sitting in the midst of a rotting midden heap; albeit one with impeccable decor. The smiles gracing the faces of those in attendance would be superficial masks at best.
This story was written for the weekly Five Sentence Fiction flash fiction prompt: feast.