Leaving unsatisfied is no way to end a meal. (Or lovemaking session…or flea market troll…or…) Like realizing, once it’s your turn to be served, the $3.95 Vietnamese sandwich you were already eating in your head is sold out, and so is the brown rice futomaki acceptable substitute. Time’s short, muthafucka! Maybe in the basket…the “rainbow” roll. Anemically thin, topped with limp, yet still appealing, unagi and avocado. Luckily “limp” means “probably ripe and tasty” in this arena. Maybe I should ask her how much it is. Nah, can’t be that much. Futomaki’s only $4…and this is way smaller. $6.45?? $7.05 with tax?? Good lord! I pay. I eat. I pick at wasabi and ginger in between bites to extend our time together. By roll’s end, it’s a one-way conversation; a painful hard-on while your partner’s already dreaming. Leaving unsatisfied is no way to end a meal.

My stomach said “not hungry” but my heart said “sweet” (a rarity). $3.40 later I’m tucking into a still-warm but super-saccharine oatmeal raisin, and sipping pilfered, surprisingly cold coffee. (As I’m wan to do, paying for the small, taking the medium) I’m still confused when, if ever, Specialty’s will make a semi-sweet with nuts. And I remember, what the fuck am I doing? I don’t even like this place.

My lunch hooker’s left me soggy and only semi-turgid, more for the anticipation than anything else. $11.00. I paid the price.