Kismet too greedy. A woman clutches her chest, mouthing her reaction to the man. The verbal gunshot staggers him, and hysteria consumes him. Pause. Rewind. Subtitles on.
Kismet too greedy. “It’s the best I could do,” she musters, a shattered heart drilling through her chest.
“Liar,” breathes the man, cocooned one final time in a shell of distrust. Pause. Play from beginning.
The man, forever hungry. Hip displasia took his mother, who used to feed him so. Decades of cooking lasagna in a low stove.
A hunger, now unsatisfied. A primal roar erupts from within, and he acknowledges, unable to ignore the beast any longer. “I know, I know!” the man shouts, glancing downward. His right shoe plunges to the ground, and the mighty roar of the engine drowns the other, a grumble in contrast. A giant, neon burger presents itself in the distance. Amidst the roaring, he becomes once more seduced. Closer, and closer, and once more closer. A flick signals turn, and he turns. “Please!” he shrieks, “Stop yelling at me!”
An irregularly-fierce shove closes the car door, following a brisk shuffle to the entrance. A smiling elderly with a hat labeled ‘Burger King’ holds the door open, refusing to respond, “You’re welcome“. The loud growling within seizes, as is appropriate indoors. The man ingests the room, full of people, and smell, and color. An ephemerally overwhelmed mind, interrupted by an empty, dreadful pit of famish. The man has never dealt with famine. A scream escapes his agony, and he falls to his knee, cupping his abdomen.
An employed woman comes to his aid, wearing her hat at him. “Sir? Sir, are you okay?” she asks, leaning down to assist the man. His pale face and clammy hands make for a simple diagnosis. “Sir, are you hungry?”
The man lifts his head and looks to her, for the first time. Innocence gazes into Sympathy. A quivering chin holds back a storm of tears. He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come out. He is choking. How? Everybody is joking now. He opens his mouth, and responds, “yes”, unable to withstand the emotional dismissal any longer. Tear-filled aqueducts emancipate the reservoirs of denial, and the man sobs a manly sob on under-mopped sienna tile.
The woman embraces the man, absorbing his tears into her apron. “It’s okay,” she consoles, “it’s okay.”
The man gazes up at the woman, his head now resting in her arms. “What is this place?”
She smiles down at the vulnerable man, and, pressing her voluptuous lips to his, emits a smooching sound. “This,” she whispers, lips still touching his, “is Burger King.”
A moment more of kissing concludes with the woman helping the man up. An emphatic growl interrupts the passion, and reminds the team of their mission. “Don’t worry,” she insists, “I can take care of that for you.”
Eyes once full with tear, now full with hope. “You have lasagna?!” the man proposes.
The woman tilts her head, fresh confusion overlapping lust. “Um, wha-well, no, we don’t. It’s Burger King, w-we only have burgers.”
The airborne confusion spreads to the man, who shares his wonder. “How can you only have burgers? That’s one item on a menu. You’re supposed to have a bunch of different items on the menu. That’s the point of a menu!” Confusion, mutating toward frustration.
“We do have a bunch of different items, over two dozen in fact!” The woman points to the electronic board to her right, illustrating identical burgers in different outfits.
Frustration devolves to anger, and the man’s voice raises, drowning out the grumbles of despair from his innards. “What do you mean, ‘different items’? These are all the same god-damn thing!”
“Well, I mean yes, technically they all have roughly the same ingredients, but-”
“The same ingredients?” he yells, “Then why can’t you make me a lasagna?! Lasagna is the same ingredients as burgers! Without the lettuce!”
The chess match of intensity climaxes with a soft, beautiful realization. The man, tomato-red from emphasis, adjusts downward from his heavy panting. The woman smiles once more, and with a brief nod, heads into the kitchen.
Twenty minutes of ravenous patience later. The man’s left index finger, all that remains grasping to consciousness. A loudspeaker awakens his soul.
“ORDER 66!”
“Surely this must be me!” Rising from his booth, he staggers to the counter, wide-eyed and desperate. The woman awaits him, alongside tray topped with plate topped with a seductive, steaming slice of lasagna.
“Here you go, sir,” she states proudly, yearning his palate’s acceptance, adding, “I hope you enjoy it.”
The man hastily unravels his spork from its packaging, unable to wait to sit back at his booth. Eyes once flooded lock with the woman’s, and a careful jab pierces and scoops the first bite of innovative genius. Without breaking, he shovels the scoop into his mouth, and rests his eyes in anticipatory bliss. The woman’s smile shines in believed success.
Several chomps and a gulp, proceeded by subtle wince. The luminous smile falters, and the woman’s confidence wobbles with doubt. Parasitic anticipation, now gone from the man, hosts itself in her conscious.
“What-, um, what do you think of it?” she asks of the man, whose eyes remain shut still.
Placing the spork down to the plate, he sighs his verdict to her. The man opens his eyes, now shamefully hesitant to make contact with the woman. Crude sincerity.
“Eh, it’s actually not that good.”
Kismet too greedy.
FOREWORD
“Tear-filled aqueducts emancipate the reservoirs of denial, and the man sobs a manly sob on under-mopped sienna tile.”
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I did not know this rhymed until long after I wrote it. I am deeply sorry.
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