A man dressed in a paramedic’s uniform squatted by his side, trying to talk to him. Nothing he said made any difference. The rushing sounded in Kirk’s ears.
“It’s just food!” the young man said calmly. That got through to Kirk.
“Just food! Just food?”
“Oh, hell,” Drea said. “You’ve gotten his attention now.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” The paramedic smiled up at her, then yelped when Kirk grabbed his collar.
“Not after what you just said. Honey,” she said calmly. “Let go of the nice young man. He didn’t know any better. Sweetheart.”
Kirk had hold of the paramedic’s shirt, dragging him forward, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.
“A burger is just food,” he growled. “French fries drenched in cheap oil, dripping with ketchup. That’s just food! Vegetables sauteed in the purest olive oil, meats braised on a slowly turning spit, roasted peppers tossed with garlic….. That, my boy, is art. Just food?”
His fist tightened on the man’s collar. Drea jerked his hands away, patting the fellow on the shoulders.
“I’m so sorry. That’s probably the worst thing to say to him at the moment.”
“He needs to lighten up,” the kid said. “Might want to consider some Xanax or something. Jeesh!”
© 2018 Dellani Oakes