He sits alone, eating his lunch with rapid, determined motions. Once one bite of food has been thoroughly chewed, his fingers fly up with another morsel, wasting no time in useless swallowing and digesting. Dainty sips are taken from the clear liquid in his glass, which holds a single straw; the ketchup bottle has been

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“I am so sick of French fries,” she suddenly remarked, and I looked up from my menu in surprise. “I mean, honestly, why have they become the be-all, end-all of restaurant side dishes? There’s nothing remarkable about them, unless they’re crinkle-cut, or curly, or topped with cheese and chili or something, and even then, they’re

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