lunch break

Finally—the phone has paused in its incessant ringing, my bosses have left for the afternoon, everyone is absorbed in their own work and I’ve completed my morning tasks. It’s one-thirty in the afternoon, but whatever—better late than never, you know.

I’m absolutely ravenous—time for lunch. Mmm, lunch. Homemade leftover fajitas await me in the office mini-fridge. I nuke them and scramble back to my desk before someone nabs me with a question or some form that must be faxed RIGHT NOW.

I am content. Warm fajitas and Spanish rice. Spicy. Just right.

She wanders up behind me. She is holding a stack of papers and looks preoccupied. She starts talking. To me. I swallow quickly and glare at her. She doesn’t notice and presses on.

No, go ahead, you aren’t interrupting the only chance I will have to eat today until I leave this hell-hole at eight o’clock at night. Oh, it isn’t that important? It’s relevance to our daily functioning is negligible compared to our strenuous workload for the month? Then by all means, keep talking. Speak louder, please—I can’t hear you over the angry growling of my stomach. I had one bite, it should tide me over ‘til 4pm at least. Oh really, is THAT what he said? Well, that’s so funny—he’s so funny. I know, he is. Oh, okay, you get back to work. Wouldn’t want to waste any more time, you know.

My fajitas and rice have reached room temperature. It’s too risky to go back to the kitchen to warm them up. I scarf them down.

Mmm, fajitas. You are so much better than the cereal bar I had for lunch yesterday. You are so good you make me forget my troubles. Everything is forgiven, including that meddling whore.