overcast and undercooked
So there we were on the lawn at work. Some charitable soul had decided to sell hamburgers to raise money for people who actually have something to complain about. The barbecue huddled under a little shelter, as though trying to hide from both the rainclouds and the ugly industrial scenery. Festive? Like a shunning.
My burger was pink and oozed in protest as I eyed it up. This burger was the sacrificial cow that would pay for my breakup of the previous night. The intra-office love affair had reached last call, and my intimacy hangover needed fuel.
Suddenly, he appeared in front of me, a column of fork lightening, an electric presence that illuminated me and my shitty burger - the beautiful vegetarian ex-boyfriend/co-worker, as wholesome as organic soymilk, his eyes as sad as Ted Neely's in Jesus Christ Superstar. I knew we would have to talk, and talk small. I started:
"This burger's pretty gross."
"Yeah. They should have veggie burgers."
"How are you?"
"Yeah, I better get to work."
It's going to get a lot better, though. Poignant anticlimax is just the first of several phases. The cougar will roam again.