You hold everything, number 11 on the periodic table, hasty morning sammies and riceballs. You are the middle school crunch of a finished meal, a finalness wrapped around tomorrow’s plate. You get crushed by some weight, too, by the slightest cramp in a schoolbag and cheese oozes into the lining. You are not foiled…
I waited for 45 minutes but he only gave me 20 for my troubles. What strange one, that man with the surgery gloves.