Sixth

Now, this dreary space looks more like a huge, condemned one room school house. A hundred adult-sized desks in rows of ten. We'd collect our trays and take the next available seat until the hundred people who made up Meal Period Three were present and accounted for. I hit the ergonomic chair with a disappointing thud, although I feel like I crashed into it like lightning on the side of a mountain. At least the food's alright; all sides of the food ocatogon represented. Half pound block of protein (depending on your gastrointestinal preference), daily vegetable, daily fruit, etc. You try to eat at a good pace because, eventually, you're faced with the dessert.

The Brownie. With a smell that could make you want to just put your face into it to sloppily masticate like a starving animal and the texture and taste of a brick dipped in shit. With a menu that is more than tolerable most of the time, the brownie is the our keepers reminding us that nothing gold can stay. That our next transgression against their unnatural order will lead to more than just a misleading dessert.

She takes her seat on my left. I look over, our eyes meet, and we share a smile. A short conversation takes place in the body language the people here have developed in the enforced absense of our voices. She thinks that the guard for her work area hasn't been taking his vitamins. He had been ogling her again, she says, but the pencilneck wouldn't have the nerve topside and certainly doesn't have it here. My face signals a surpressed laugh and her's follows suit. I let a few HA's slip into my fist and dig into my slab of beef. Swan Lake is playing on the big screen at the front of the room and her face replaces the face of every twenty-foot tall dancer as all nine girls rise together en pointe. I bet she was a dancer in a past life.