You slide into the hard plastic seat and look at your meal, hidden in its papers, a tepid promise on the shiny orange tabletop. Your hands shake as you unwrap it, the music buzzing in your ears with the thump of your pulse-
YUMBO, there's no need to feel down...
You can feel eyes on you, hot with jealousy and judgement. Dare you do this in public? But to wait, to carry it in your faltering hands all the way to privacy- you aren't strong enough.
The crackle of the paper is an incantation. The scent of warm, greasy ham, subtle before, now billows up as you unveil it to the world. It is warm, and wet, like eating a living part of yourself. Your vision blurs and fuzzes to pins and needles, you hear only the music, feel only the tears running down your cheeks. Your tears smell of ham.
When it is done, you gather yourself quickly and flee. You aren't sure, as you go, if anyone was actually in the restaurant this whole time..