Finger-lickin' Bad
Matt Bors

Finger-lickin' Bad

You were the stupid, self-absorbed woman standing in front of me at the salad bar. Despite signs urging customers not to eat in line, you picked at your plate as the line inched forward, launching pieces of iceberg lettuce and pinches of raisins and croutons into your foul mouth. You then sucked your fingers down to your knuckles, oblivious to my stink-eye. Every time you added something new to your mountain of food, you left your saliva and germs on the tongs the people behind you had to pick up. Shuddering, I watched where you put your filthy hands. I passed on the croutons and the iceberg. I didn’t eat much of anything at lunch that day. You, Patient Zero, are a pig, and you owe me $7.99.


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