Morning In The Cafeteria

The moment I walked into the cafeteria that day I knew something was wrong. Across the tables and chairs hung glum faces. The coat hanger shoulders, miniature gods of shift work. Pale chewing gum muscles stretched taught beneath thin sallow skin, the black eyes of sleepless whores. They were talking, they never talked. As I approached they all let their mouths drop open, all winding up to start talking over each-other and fading away in the same lame fashion as I passed them. Small white beaked chicks craving a bloody feed.

One of them stood up.

She explained that the communal fridge had lost its power overnight and their food had gone bad in the simoom of the lower level kitchens.

I held my hand limply in front of her and slowly turned my head away with a snear, eyes half closed, my chin jutting out further and my tounge fat and lazy over my front teeth.

“Talk to the hand bitch”, I remarked in a high pitched wail

They moved languidly like seaweed in a warm current. A few giggled. I flapped open the flip-top bin and un-tucked my penis from my leather underpants.

I urinated.