Only a handful of other patrons were actually there to eat so late at night. One particularly drunken vagabond was sleeping on a booth, and two skinny hoodlums fidgeted suspiciously in a dark corner.
My waitress was a nice college girl; asian, but not chinese. She smiled and set down my steaming entree whilst simultaneously refilling my soda. She curtsied, and vanished into the darkness and elevator music.
Awkwardly picking up my chopsticks, I lifted a sizzling nugget of fried, sugar-coated chicken to my mouth. I could imagine the food looking up at me, feeling guilty for the havoc it knew it would wreak on my system for the next 48 hours. My head echoed with haunting memories of tortured nights spent moaning in my bathroom.
I popped the chewy greaseball into my mouth and smiled. I didn’t really care what went on in that kitchen. The Cat’s Meow had the best fucking chinese food in town.
End
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