The Hunger
The half-eaten black beans burger in my plate looks sad. I feel like it’s staring at me, challenging me, asking me why it’s not good enough. I’ve been there before, so I sympathize. And it’s not like the burger isn’t delicious; no one in their right mind would be willing to spend over $25 on a meatless burger if it didn’t come with a certain reputation, but given the choice, it’s not what I’d have picked. Given the choice, I would have gone for my date’s order instead. I almost lost it when Charlie told the waitress he’d have the steak, but the moment he explained to her he wanted his meat blue, I wanted to die. And it felt like a slow painful death: my insides twisting and turning, mouth dry and watering at the same time, my stomach not content enough with growling hunger but howling out of frustration. I swear the couple behind us turned to check if there wasn’t a wild animal on the loose in the restaurant after hearing that noise. I pinch the soft skin inside my elbow until I draw blood. The gesture more annoying than painful really, but it distracts me enough that I refrain from jumping across the table and rip my date’s throat apart.
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