lunching

I ate too much for lunch. A hazy stupor came over me, after the kebab. That tabbouleh taste, hummus on my fingers, paper bag heavy with discarded tinfoil and sauce drippings. I lay under a totara in the park, spiney needles prickling their way along my arms and back, never quite comfortable but yet I managed for the sake of the perfect balance of dappled light and shade.

The cookie was the real mistake, though. Clutching the yet-to-be-consumed kebab in one hand, gad-about wallet in the other, the scent of a biscuity breeze was too much. White chocolate macadamia. Bit by bit I broke off pieces and placed them in my waiting mouth, chewing slowly, savouring taste but not sensation, tempted to spit out the wad of crumbled chocolate and dough, coagulated and befouled.

I fed the last crumbs to the sparrows, glad that the pigeons do not make their home there. One cocked its head at me, half a macadamia in its beak. Despite this bounteous load, it still looked expectant, like there was more to come.

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