Fictional Non-Fiction: Anthony
It was all in that look; those all too attentive wide-eyes, the slight gape in his mouth as a thought scratched the surface of his brain. It was the all too characteristic crook’d smile. It was the mumbles, the hellos and good-byes. It was the sit-down-and-chat-with-you while you test the ability to not let green pesto streak all over the corners of your mouth. Let me eat my sandwich, please.
I fight the feeling of being watched—Like his hazel eyes are catching my every move. Do I take my usual messy bite? Do I rest my elbows on the table? Do I pat my mouth with my used and grimy napkin? Or whilst I offend his privileged Sir?
”Ahnd whut is iyt you haave heeare? You ahven’t even toutched it yhet,” he cups it in his hand, places his fingers on the plastic spoon—
That’s my soup. Don’t touch my soup. I am going to eat it. I’ve just been so concerned with not making a mess out of my sandwich that I forgot about it.
I snatch it away from him, “That’s Cream of Potato Bacon Cheddar, it’s soo good,” and scarf it down. Gulp. Lick the spoon. Scratch out every little morsel. Lick the spoon.
He makes another note of conversation. I indulge in it while checking the seconds on the clock. Nod my head. Smile. Laugh. Check the clock.
Then that look glazes over his face again. Inquiring eyes, studious eyes. Like something is trying to escape from them. I dismiss it and avert my thoughts.
The timer goes off, and as I leave he sends me off with a proper goodbye. Goodbye Sir, until next time.
