i pick at my rapsberry/peach muffin, plucking the edges of its top in a circular motion, round and round until the sugary crust vanishes revealing a center of sweet dough and chunks of fruit that stains my fingertips.
look at me.
when did i become so methodical?
i'm turning into my mother.
no, my father.
i don't even like muffins.
i'm just a sucker for free shit at work.
almost time to meet the green courier bag boy.
can't believe i had the balls to write him.
[note to self to not use words like 'balls' on our date.]
my mother wouldn't approve of that language,
nor of my meeting strange men in cafés.
[another reason why i'm doing it]
she insists the city is filled with rapists and serial killers.
i've never knowingly encountered one.
maybe with the exception of that guy who sits and watches me eat my free muffin every afternoon. maybe i'm being paranoid. or perhaps this is some weird obsession or perversion for him. is there a word for someone with a pastry fetish? there should be. he gives me the creeps.
time to go meet Ricky. or was it Richie.