Wednesday, July 11, 2012
I was among the clutter of people waiting for a table. You were at the salad bar. You were wearing a pink shirt. You had reached the end of the salad bar with your plate heaped with lettuce, tomatoes, onions, chick peas, lima beans, macaroni salad, potato salad, beets, pickles, and dressing.
It was evident that you really like pumpernickel croutons. I do also. Your back was to me but I could see your hands perfectly well. You placed your plate on the edge of the salad bar table, pushing the container of sunflower seeds savagely out of your way. You used the tongs with your right hand to dip into the jar of croutons. You then whipped your left hand under the tongs and grabbed at the croutons threatening to escape while simultaneously scooping more croutons from the jar into your sausage fingers. In that manner, you managed to procure a heap of croutons. You skillfully maneuvered the whole clutch of croutons onto your plate. You glided away, oblivious to my stomach which had slid to the floor past my socks.
Halfway into my meal, I spied you at the next table vigorously coughing up some rather juicy phlegm. You were coughing into your hands and not into a napkin or tissue.
I am done eating anything from salad bars thanks to you. Probably for the rest of my life.
sapphoq n friends