I’m in line for a chicken sandwich. The cashier says there’s a fifteen-minute wait for spicy. Do I stay, swallowing down stomach rumbles? Or do I go and later regret my lack of fortitude?
My mouth waters in anticipation of the tasty burn, the crunchy heat promised by the restaurant’s promos of their chicken sandwich — back for a limited time only.
I crave it; probably because it’s not on the menu permanently. It’s like sex, the rare amazing toe-curling type, for the mouth. Imagine heat fucking your taste buds each and every way conceived.
Drool, like cum, drips down my chin. I wipe it on my shirt sleeve. Fuck it, I’m staying. My stare alternates between my watch and into the kitchen. My feet tap a quarter-hour rhythm.