chinese box

MSG floats like a brown cloud in the bar. i'm having a beer with friends. a clot of indie lesbians are chowing down, chopsticks like knitting needles, pigging out from an open box (one of those ear-flap chinese take-out origamis crammed with sweaty unknowns). they gin up the gossip as the odor overtakes the nose the same way fumes from a cartoon pie on a window sill sniffs Goofy off the ground. but we're lazy and won't skitter across Centre St to grab last call at Food Wall. strangely, out of the hazy blue, a tattooed, pierced-into-oblivion boi grl appears beside me, food box mouth agape and held in front of my nose. 'want some?' she smiles. it's chock full of those stapled tight peking dumpling pillows, a food offer i can't refuse. 'sure,' i say, as calmly as possible, taking hold of the bottom end of the shiny white paper lotus. 'thanks, babe'. i'm thinking she wants me to eat the entire box or at least to share the pillows with my friends, but as i pull it towards my lap, she pulls back. i pull again, thinking she's being careful not to spill the pillows, but she pulls harder. back-and-forth, to-and-fro, a miniature war of wills. oh...i get it. she's offering up just one of the dumplings, one only and wants to navigate the room, handing out the rest one-at-a-time to the remaining rats. she's upset. her eyebrows are arm wrestling. we're locked in gay combat as if my hand has yet to get the brain telegram: LET GO OF THE FUCKING BOX, ASSHOLE! at long last my greedy truck driver fingers relax, she retrieves the box, her box and crabs away in a spitfire huff. i guess i busted her PC share-the-wealth good will big time. my bad.