He wraps his whole self around his food. Puts his face up right close to it, moves so his shoulders and arms wrap around it, as if he’s some starving dog ready to snap at any hand that even contemplates taking it. Watching him makes me feel sick, as he crowds around his plate, breathing out and in rapidly as the food sucks down his gullet. Mumma sow's little piglet, pimple pocked and red faced from the exertion it took for him to walk to the KFC counter, from way out there, fifty metres to the carpark. She chuffed in after him, she in her 40’s and he around 20.
“Well, what do you want?” she wheezes.
“Ultimate burger meal, the one with the burger, the chips, the drink, the potato and gravy and the chicken wings. Make it a large. And I want a second burger.”
She orders the bucket for herself.
Twenty dead chooks later and they look at each other, he shrugs, as if to say “well I didn’t ask to be born”, and she shrugs back as if to say “they said you can’t get pregnant the first time. Or, for that matter, the last time.”