Eating Man

There were rumblings that you were in town. Sightings. News reports. I was on the look out. That afternoon as I waited in line for my donair, as I watched the tzatziki drizzle over the lamb–you walked in. It took all I had not to stare. I thought about texting someone, anyone, but the man behind the counter was asking for toppings. I had to keep it together. After my order was finished and paid for, with surprisingly minimal fumbling, I sat at the table closest to the door. No way I would miss you. When you walked towards the exit, taking yours to go, l looked directly into your face. Into your eyes. Eyes that were wrong, so wrong. The nose, the nose was off. I let go of a sigh punctuated by a frown. You looked at me quizzically. You were not George Clooney. You were not George Clooney at all.