My feet were beginning to ache by the time I reached Robinsons Galleria.
It had been one of those ordinary errand days that somehow leave you more exhausted than busy. Client meetings, bank transactions, small purchases, lines that move just slowly enough to test your patience. By late afternoon, hunger had simplified everything. I no longer wanted to weigh options or compare menus. I wanted food that would satisfy something primal and immediate.
I wanted fried chicken.
I was weaving through the usual lunchtime crowd when a tray passing in my peripheral vision made me turn my head. A woman walked past carrying a plate of fried chicken so beautiful that it felt almost absurd to encounter it in the middle of a mall food court. The pieces were deeply golden, their crust uneven in the most promising way, with ridges and crags that caught the light. It was the sort of chicken that looked loud even before you heard it crackle.
I kept looking at it.
Long enough, probably, to cross the line between curiosity and impoliteness.
