The bread omelette stared at me, like the disfigured face of a burn victim.
Its wrinkly white pores resembled an old man with no teeth. The omelette hung limply from the sides like the limbs of a cancer patient.
I sank my teeth into the rubber.
I hate bread omelette. So I had asked the guy to get me a plain omelette. It was a simple enough instruction. But what arrived was a sallow egg sandwiched between two resilient pieces of bread. I told him I did not want the bread. What made him get the bread?
He told me I should have specified.
Only I did.
I told him off, a bit rudely. And then realized, may be this was why people thought I was obnoxious. I left the sad bread omelette as the lame kitty nobody wanted. A desperate desire to throw away the pathetic excuse for food rushed through me. The nerves in my palms leaped in joy.
I could throw the plate in the kitchen and make him cringe in fear. May be the resounding noise would wake him out of his carelessness. A thousand such scenes flashed through my mind. It was worth a try. The act would be obnoxious enough to get his attention.
Or I could ignore it. Let him know I didn’t care for his substandard service. He would get the message.
Or I could just rescue the omelette and eat it. Ignore the distorted bread.
But there wasn’t any evil in that.
I patiently waited, looking to create maximum impact.
And as I pondered over the next course of action, I slowly ripped the bread to shreds. Along with the omelette. The elastic slice badgered my teeth. Amidst mouthfuls, I thought. This time, I’ll let it slide. But the next time, I drag him to hell.
