“You’re ruining your taste buds with that high class bullshit. Keep it simple. Eggs on toast. Spaghetti with meat sauce. Cereal in milk. See? Simple.”

     Misery. That was the only word capable of accurately describing what it was like to talk to Jack about food. Absolute misery. I was eating chicken alfredo or something. I don’t know. It came in a fucking box and cost me next to nothing but here he was, lecturing me on how everything I ate was too complex to truly be enjoyed.

     “Also, don’t season your steak. Everyone seasons their steak! How can you enjoy the taste of the meat when it’s suffocated under the mask of another goddamn flavor? Are you even listening?”

     “Yes, I’m here.”

     “I didn’t ask if you were here, I asked if you were listening.”

     “I’m listening! But I don’t want to! For Christ’s sake Jack, just let me eat in peace.”

     “Whatever. Go on destroying the true essence of flavor.”

     “You watch too much TV.”

     Jack walked into the next room to smoke something pretentious with that hookah that he bought while he was “backpacking across India.” He used some kind of weird exotic saalaam herbal shisha crap. It smelled like tiramisu and burning rubber and diapers. It’s probably the reason he only eats “simple” foods; when everything tastes like cardboard, you might as well buy cheap. I hate him so much.

     Smoke meanders around the table. I realize my food is undercooked and turn slowly to the window. It’s been raining all damn day.