A Dining Experience
I scrape my fork through the lumpy, yellow potato mush with a tired sigh. The stench of a burned burger reminds me of the heaviness in my stomach and the nauseating taste in my mouth. A queasy feeling encompasses my body, and I readjust myself on the lumpy vinyl cushion that is my seat. A sticky wooden table lies in front of me, topped with a plate upon which rests the remains of a gooey sandwich that turns my stomach when I look at it.
As I sit in the
chilly room, listening to the soft rock 80’s music, I wonder at the sanity, or
lack there of, of the decorator, who was obviously paid far too much for the
quality of work he or she produced. Each
wall has a row of paintings, farm and animal scenes mostly, which look like
they were drawn by a five-year-old with finger paints. This, along with the tacky magenta silk roses
dotting the room and clashing with the dark, burgundy tiled floor, is a
calamity to the eyes. Trash litters the
dingy carpet and dirty dishes rest on many tables.
As the business
begins to pick up, so does the noise level.
Several little conversations can be heard, one atop another. People are yelling to each other, ice is
being dumped, and papers are being rustled.
The noise throbs in my skull. I
try to block it out, breathing slowly, sucking in a great breath of smoke and
old rotten food. I chastise my decision
to dine here tonight and realize I had made a tragic mistake, clank my money on
the table and hustle out as fast as I can through the herd waiting to graze.