Lunch

She inveigled me as best she could to meet her for lunch, but I immediately declined, explaining, with fake apologetics, that "I don't do lunch." The word,"lunch" itself has an unplesant aftersound. Anyway, when she asked why, it elicited my objection to the global idea of macro-restaurant-lunchmeet culture, describing it in honest terms as two people sitting opposite at tables too small in a buzzing public place, facing each other, jealously muffling their already guarded banter, at my insistence, in order to scramble our pedestrian discourse from peripheral lunch-people, who probably know who I am and want to know more. Where pariticipants briefly read lunch selections from the lamenated lunch menus, filthy with fingerprints, and swallow tap water while having to uncomfortably endure the other's visage from a distance of two or so feet and engage in inane platitudes that matter to me absolutely goddamn not at all. All to the cancer of static noise, and clinking plates and saucers immersed in humish bird-like plastic speech-like noise sprinkled with mostly fake laughter, while some facebook fone woman in the corner giggles like a fucking bird as she contemplates taking a picture postcard of her spring salad, whereupon we then receive plates of lunch for review, scanning for beard hairs while the underpaid and struggling server says, "enjoy," as my forward facing lunchmate lifts the top of her hard bun to examine dead chicken that she'll soon masticate which will require me to occasionally watch her stupid face contort with each x-ray of chomping gooey lunch, while I envision the heavy ceiling collapsing, killing us all.