Marvin stared at the fork on the table. He felt sick to his stomach with hunger, but dammit if he wasn’t going to maintain some semblance of civility.

He waved at the waitress, pointed to his fork. “That is a disaster, can I get a new fork?”

She nodded, took the dirty fork away.

He waited, stomach turning, nostrils flaring with the scent of lettuce, croutons, dressing.

When the waitress came back, Marvin’s face was covered with lettuce.

He crunched the croutons, muttering “Too late.”

One comment on “EIGHTY-FIVE

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