He sat down and stared at the behemoth in front of him. This … was to be his lunch. He already knew he would be eating until he felt awful but he picked up his fork and dug in anyway.
This was his favorite and least favorite (during astute post-meal analysis) restaurant in the world.
The amount of dollars spent here would be upsetting, shocking, pain-inducing and gut wrenching … Unless compared to the amount of calories consumed here. And then the dollars would be a mere drop in the bucket.
Before he knew it his plate was half empty, his appetite was gone, and yet the fork continued to move.
Slice, slice, bite. Slice, slice, bite. The rhythmic motions perfected like an Olympic level athlete’s perfect form.
He sat back, finally, stomach so full it almost hurt to exhale. Taking deep breaths because the effort had exhausted him physically and somehow, against all logic, emotionally.
The plate was conquered. The dish vanquished. Appetite demolished. Sense of self-hatred sky rocketing. The belly was the new ruler of the land and, oh, she was not pleased.
He got up, asked to see the chef, the manager, and his waitress. He took a large sip of his drink and proceeded to spit it out, as though his mouth was a whale’s blowhole, onto each of the three people integral in this all too large consumption fest.
Finally, he thought, I can actually stick to my diet now.
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