Eyes of a Stranger

I wasn't expecting it to happen this way.  Hadn't really given it any thought all day - a day that saw towering stacks of pizza arrive at the office, saw the promised return of my spacious desk, saw further development of my city as a setting for zombie survival horror, saw me learn new tricks in InDesign.  Throughout the day, there were views of trains, discussion of Apple's big announcements, off-color humor.  A fairly normal day.

I headed down to the second floor, intent on some exercise.  I got in a half-hour on a treadmill.  It was good.  I toweled off, recovered my gear, and left the building.

Once outside, it hit.  A calling.  A reminder.  I felt and heard the influence of red clay dirt and slow speech.  My cultural and geographic origins demanded respect, at least for one night.  In the two hundred feet between door and truck, I ran the inventory - shortening, salt, pepper, seasoning, flour, the all-important cast-iron skillet?  Yes, all there.  Only two things more, then.  I was driven - I did not consciously drive - to the grocery.  The meat and dairy cases were as beacons.  I carried my prizes into the kitchen and went to work.

Biscuits, mashed potatoes, peas, and fried chicken.  I shall have leftovers for days, and they shall be wonderful.  cc_wolff, that first piece was for you, buddy.