Can’t help it. My pulse rises, head twirling, eyebrows flinching. The muscles are no longer mine to control.
I'm in a shadow. Tunnel vision. Inhale food. Now.
My favorite spot in the whole wide world greets me with the same menu I’m so custom to, and I’m not the kind of troublemaker who wants to throw in a serenade of surprises, especially not in a mood like this, so the instant I enter the noodles are prepared.
So one might think.
The wait is tremendous. Horrible. Awful. No adjectives can describe it so I’ll stop.
Then I have my compulsive behavior of spicing things up, open the lid up and throw sauces in.
Maybe it’s an even plot against me, cause they should know this by now, and yet; they keep insisting on tying my bag so implausible hard.
Full minutes flash by your very eyes as you struggle through the knot.
And every single second of those represents one without food.
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