I look at the leftovers of my last meal in front of me.
The barely cooked egg yolk still runs on the plate—the table must be slightly uneven—until it touches the steak. It's a rare steak, which was a mistake to order. The blood from the piece I just cut makes a small shallow pool against the white of the dish. Fascinated, my eyes follow the running yoke in its slow-motion trip to the red pool. They strangely touch in a swirling movement.
The smell of coffee (I used to love it) violently invades my nostrils. I still can't take my eyes of the colour combination on the plate bizarrely tinged by the coffee smell.
I feel I am going to throw up. I should have gone with lobster for my last meal.
