lunch

Nod and mumble, chair pulled: kzzhikh.
The still dark biting surface of the drops trickle twitter down creeping gentle against the glass and sink soundless soft, seamlessly swallowed silently: one touch at a time: taste of barrenness and the dryness washed around quickly through the throat and down into stomach: empty but of some bread this morning.
Takes another and from the corner watches the silence around him. The chipper chitter chattering of the others speaking on and on, an endless parade of small slivers of words breathed into the air, travelling from mouth to ear, behind napes, around the hats, bouncing off backs and hands: and flowing around the damp edges of the glasses they hold in their hands, circulating through the room, touching the ceilings, curling around corners turning into a melee shut off by a clouds of dust from him.
Waiter brings it here, took long. Take a bite, be good for now. Tiny particles ride up from the plate, sudden touch of steam to the chin and within now the slow climb up to arouse a sudden spurt of flavour and devour the meat with eyes: the brown running liquid enrobing the flesh, sitting, still too hot.
Fingers curling around the knife, he feels the metal against skin, the fork, unheard scrapes. Slowly the flesh cools.
Pat the waiter with drinks and Pat the waiter asking: liver and bacon, steak and kidney pie. Burnt that morning. Craving the taste then and still want to dig into it, hunger comes and goes and never at the moment.
Bottle in his hand, gripped tight, little wrinkle on the head, stem twists to the sun.
The angry scraping of silverware ceases in the corner and the hand moves up, another whiff before the bite: food loses taste when cooled. The flesh good when it is warm, but too much heat can’t be borne by gentle palates. Only hungry men are angry. Then no thought while tearing into it: juice run down the jaw (sloppy eater for others to fear), jowls working meticulously, takes a minute to wash and let it slither down.
The relisherof inne ror ga n s of beasts: lerivicslse, strudoastffethares, nut-ty-griz-z-z-z-ards: grizzly bits of beastly nature.
Sudden klink-klangk and the fork on the floor, the stranger in the corner looking about, feeling for the fallen weapon. Little bits touching his fingertips, little bit of mud the last one brought in, collecting under the nails, settling in by now till they stick and then he finds the fork and now back to eat, and the little bits falling into the gravy, swimming around and entering his mouth and descending. No.
Him nodding away, chewing away, the strength to bite into the food, chew, chew, tearing it apart, the grizzly bits of beastly nature he relishes so much.
Immersed in the mashing the mashed into gravy and beat, whip to equal consistency, one part gravy to two parts potato.
His plate empty, all gone, but much better than the morning, burnt kidney at home. Little morsel slipped between the molars, twisting tongue teasing it out: left, in, in, other side, again, little, gone.
Stomach satisfied, last touch to the lips, lick, tchkyl, all washed down, the bitter taste smooth with the acidic flavour of the food teasing the taste buds and leaving the gullet nicely wetted. Dab of kerchief to the mouth a crumb brushed away, hat and coat and on to the world beyond. Little dribble of sweat, tiny, trickle down, twitter creeping past his salty temples, thinking he is.
At the hotel that welcomed him, aforesaid relisher of inner organs of beasts: liver slices, stuffed roasted hearts, nutty grizzards. Still eating, good, now, go, do what must be done my naughty darling.