Sunday, May 11, 2014

One Paragraph


When he does eat, after this moment of silence, he does not peel the skin off the orange. He’s been told from a young age that the sound of his chewing is alien. His Mother tried her best to change the noise, a distinct guttural chomping beat that he could not help but make, with very little success. So after many playground teasings and moments of childhood anxiety, he began to take matters into his own hands and exclusively ate foods that could create their own personal sonic drama. Peanuts still within shell, hamburgers on severely toasted bread, popcorn kennels by the handful. His mouth became a rock-mixer; his teeth coarse and flat. But everyone began observing only what he ate, and not how it was eaten.

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