Autobiography of a Skinless Mind: 8: Eating Out

by Shaina

“Is it enough, though?” I pressed
them, as we walked in the iced wind, in
the dark.  The restaurant’s walls had been of brick
and fake brick.  I felt the calculated
awkwardness of the girl pushing my
chair under my ass–like first
sex–gentle, yet firm–was it
firm?  I scooted in.  “The price
you pay is not for the wine but the
privilege to ask why it’s not at your place
on time,” I conjectured.  “It needed
salt.  Salt, salt, salt.  The free-est
ingredient.  So stingy, sometimes.  “Lobster.”
“Lasagna.”  “Women’s room.”  Oh my,
then what is it?  Who am I?  “Shaina.”  Is
it enough, though?

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