Bacon

          She had a bacon sandwich this morning instead of getting to work on time. Extra crispy, on wheat toast, greasy silverware on a paper place mat in front of her and a steaming brown mug of generic coffee thawing out her right palm. She works at an upscale coffee shop but she drank that coffee anyway, and nodded a "yes please" to the kind waitress' coffee pot.
          She sat on her scarlet wool coat and tore a chunk out of the sandwich in a rather unladylike manner. Meat is not meant to be eaten delicately, she thought while chewing. Meat has been murdered; meat has been hacked out of the side of an animal; meat is red and bloody. Meat must be eaten in a carnal caveman fashion. Big bites, greasy fingertips, swigs of black coffee to pump the remnants of the previous day out of her bloodstream, to replace them with comforting caffeine.
          She is not a nice young lady. She growls. She is not cute. She sucks the grease off of her fingers. She is late and she doesn't even care.