I spied him slipping into the lunch line;
He was squeezing through the crowd to snatch a bag of chips—
The spicy kind,
That in a mouthful stung the taste buds from my tongue,
But that I refused to throw or give away.
And he tucked a muffin into his palm beside the chips—
The chocolate-chocolate-chip kind,
That I savored every bit of—
That tasted so heavenly I knew it had to be good for me,
But that I felt so guilty for devouring as I did.
Struggling now to keep hold of the chips and the muffin,
He juggled them in one hand as the other hovered
Over a bin of fruits, bright under fluorescent lights,
And he grabbed a glossy apple,
The not-quite-yellow kind,
That gently nipped at lips with semi-sourness—
That had a strong, resilient skin,
But tender flesh,
That I regretted abandoning on the core.
A pile of change jangled into the cashier's hand,
And he strode off, in the direction opposite my usual table,
Leaving me to my peanut butter sandwich.