My stomach is burning. The idea of walking over to that table and jumping into their bowl of noodles is becoming more of a possibility rather than a food obsessed fantasy.
Hearing the heavy, wooden chairs scratch along the cracked floor is sending me into a rage. My shoulders are tense with hunger pains.
Soon my face will become infused with steam, rising from my bowl of tender pork, my slippery rice noodles and my tiny cup of steaming green tea.
If it does not arrive soon, I will have to open up this jar of thick, burning chili paste and gingerly put a heaping spoonful into my speechless mouth.
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