Crunch Crunch

She's a young black woman, dressed smartly in a white sweater and black slacks. Her large purse is slung over her shoulder; three-inch silver hoop earrings dangle from her ears, and her jet black hair is slicked back as if she gelled it in a wind tunnel.

In her hand is an open bag of Old Dutch Sour Cream & Onion potato chips.

Understand that I'm hungry after a hard day's work, with a light lunch. Those chips look good from where I'm seated. I can almost smell them.

She slowly, so as not to make a lot of noise, reaches into the foil bag and withdraws a perfect, round, rippled sliver of deep-fried potato and slips it into her mouth. I hear nothing, and then...

Crunch, crunch.

My mouth is watering... that is my favourite flavour of chip and I wish I had the social courage to approach her and ask her to share. But my seatmate has me trapped in place.

Again, the ebony hand disappears into the flecked, gleaming foil of the bag and transfer another crisp morsel into her mouth...

Crunch, crunch.

That's enough. I can't bear to watch anymore. I go back to reading my book.

Crunch, crunch.

Crunch, crunch.

Finally! There's my stop.
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