Sources report that the friend sitting across from you at lunch has really got his eye on your sandwich pickle. After finishing his own lunch, his attention immediately switched to your plate.

Oh my.

Just look at him. You can tell he desperately needs it. Watch the flit of his gaze, peering deeply through your eye-sockets into your being, then back at your plate. How can you blame your companion? The pickled delicacy lies before him, next to the remnants of your lunch. It’s teasing him, within his physical reach…yet inaccessible.

The pickle was meant for you, destined for your mouth, but no, not if he has his way. For him, fate is not set in stone, it is molded by the will of humanity. He bides his time, waiting for the moment to strike. He is trying to read your mercurial soul. The universe has endowed that pickle to you, vested it in your control. Will you stake claim to what is rightfully yours? Or have you finished your meal?

He is tensed up like a wild cat in the meadow’s brush, ready to pounce. He’s awaiting the go-ahead, the signal, the dabbing of a napkin to the mouth or the pushing of away of the plate. Your inclinations are known to you, but lie beyond his grasp. Every second of uncertainty torments him.

Why must you continue to tempt him so? Surely you cannot be so naive to his pain.

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