We ate the burgers with a kind of lust. Like the chicken eating in Tom Jones. But with burgers. I licked some juice from her chin. I had to.
Tagged: Food (993)
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This morning he heard his mother had died. He went to a burger joint and tried to eat to death. But no one could make a burger like his mom.
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She started to weep. This was the thing that happened when the thing turned into a thing. She took out a frozen cake. This was also a thing.
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He orders a double cheeseburger and notes the annoyingly judgemental look on the beefy waiter and says, At least I have a speedy metabolism.
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He promised her the world. Then he took her out for a burger. Way to manage expectations, she said. It was something he’d learned in school.
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He was a homely child who grew into a handsome man and held a noble job, who always wore leather chaps, and preferred his cakes under baked.
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Everyone is hungry; the grumbling has turned to revolt. Good things take time, I say. The noise dies down. While my wife can’t stop laughing.
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The food is placed on our table and we recognize none of it. Did we order this? I ask. Would you eat that? she asks. We leave to get a room.
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The parade ended and we went for ice cream. I hate parades, I sighed. My ice cream slipped the bonds of its cone. That’s karma, she told me.
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I ordered a burger. My father called. He was leaving his wife. How many is that? I asked. I need some cash, he said. And I ordered a Whisky.
