THE DELIVERY PERSON HOLDS A PLASTIC BAG ALMOST BURSTING WITH THOSE STYROFOAM TAKEOUT BOXES, done up like a baby straight from the stork.
I must have take-out.
I must, I must, I must, I must, I must. But I mustn’t be weird when I take the takeout.
The guy says, “Here’s your food.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Smells delicious.”
He hands me the food, and the debit machine. I put my PIN in right, and hand him back the debit machine. He waits for the receipt, like a very slow and business-like ejaculation.
“I don’t need the receipt,” I say, noticing the receipt get longer.
“Okay,” he says, ripping the receipt. “Have a good night.”
“You too,” I say. And shut the door.
That went well. But it almost wasn’t worth food magically appearing at my door. I quickly check my order and find that General Tao is missing.
An army without its General Tao is nothing. I will waste away and die here.
From outside my window comes the pretty chirping of the midnight train. I don’t want to believe it, but maybe the friendly delivery person is eating my General Tao. Maybe he is a messy eater, and he is licking my General Tao off his fingertips.
I am sad for my order. A good takeout never leaves a meal behind. Oh, well, what am I out? Eight bucks? That’s only half an hour of my life.
I look at the full moon. Many would call it a stunning, sensational moon.
I suppose I can be at peace with just Chicken Chow Mein.