|Why I prefer my toothpicks to be artfully whittled
||[Jul. 17th, 2008|02:02 pm]
So, only too late do I realize that that flash of yellow-orange on my fork that I saw out of the corner of my eye during the business lunch is actually the damn cellophane frill from the toothpick that held my Reuben sandwich together. |
And there it is in my mouth, mixed in with said forkful of Reuben. Which I am eating with a fork in the first place because it was a messy, falling apart kind of construction and I am eating with several people who are NOT ready for the real me, raw and uncut. Who may, if I value my position, NEVER be ready.
So, rather than make a funny scene...my natural instinct...I swallow it.
I can feel it there, unravelled. Starting at the back of my throat and winding all the way down to my stomach. Burning. (Aren't psychosomatic visions awesomely powerful?)
I anticipate that it will take at least three ciders to wash it out of my upper GI.