The pale plate nestled in her grip.  Knuckles white, she lifted the cold serving spoon.  Under the heating lamps her skin tingled as she scooped the rice.  Plop, 200.  Side-step, coconut shrimp.  Plop, 250.  Side-step, orange chicken.  Plop, 350 at least.  Her feet shuffled her back to her seat among her family.  She settled in her chair.




Their oozing sauces swirled together and evaporated into her nostrils.  The digits stared back.  They glowed, screamed at her.

A pile of numbers.  Begging.

Too many.  That’s too many.  I don’t have that many left.  Just one bite.

They jostled around, wrestling with her tongue.  All of them.  At least 200.

And each slipped down her throat in victory.


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