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Free write #1 Moore

He was hungry. Insatiable really. It seemed no matter how much he ate, he

couldnt find satisfaction. The other diners looked at him with disgust, but he didnt care.
All he could focus on was his next bite. At the start, he had practised decorum, but as
his hunger intensified he put down the knife and fork, and grabbed hunks of meat
ripping them apart with his hands.
Excuse me, sir. The matres de appeared in his perfectly press tuxedo, a thin white
towel draped elegantly over his extended arm. His hair thinning and slicked back, he
resembled a rat, his nose twitchy and scrunched up. There have been
I stared at the expanse in front of me. Cups were toppled over, plates stacked
haphazardly on the table, bits of food clinging to them like the plates were life rafts
aboard the Titanic. The tablecloth was speckled with food, wine, saliva. I understood the
complaints, but how could I make him understand? I couldnt stop. It was as if the food
were air and I gasping for breath. I pulled out a wad of bills from my pocket and with
grease stained hands thrust them at the matres de. He looked at me and very
discreetly took the money, it was so well done I didnt even notice until my hand was
noticeably lighter. The man shuffled away and my stomach growled, reminding me of
my task.
I wiped my mouth and chin with the back of my arm, clearing particles of steak, grease,
and mashed potatoes, which left a trail of filth on the back of my arm. I gripped the filet
in my hands and bit into it, juices cascaded down my chin again like a waterfall of blood
and rendered fat. I dont know if you could call what I was doing as chewing, but more
like trying to swallow bites whole, willing my throat to expand to take in even more. I
licked my fingers clean, enjoying the remnants of meat trapped on my dirty digits. I
grabbed the bottle of wine sitting in a decanter in the middle of the table and drank.
Rivulets of grape ran down my throat, but still I wanted more. I waved at my waiter
signalling him bring him more. He looked horrified and glanced furtively at the matres
de looking for some signal. A curt nod and I knew. My stomach was distended terribly,
giving me the appearance of a pregnant woman in her third trimester. It is without irony I
recognized distention is usually a sign of starvation, as I sat in all my gluttony. The
plate arrived and I ate more, and more, and more. In my haste, and forgetting to chew, I
felt the hunk become lodged. Gasping for breath, I arose clutching my throat, sending
cutlery and china everywhere. I stumbled around, noting the look on the other patrons
faces. I felt strong arms encircle me and pull. Once. Twice. Three times. The particle
flew from my mouth across the table landing in a saliva-bile soaked heap.
I sat down. I was still hungry.

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