Lately Aaron had been forgetting to eat. He would turn on some Schubert, maybe even some Bergmuller, at top volume, his sole intention being to attract the attention of his neighbors. He would boil a pot of tea, sit, and just listen. This morning, Aaron let several hours of Chopin pass by before he realized he hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch. Hungry, he made his way around the block to Deena's 28 Hour Diner. I wonder what happens in those four extra hours, he thought. Too hungry to care, he ignored the homeless man outside the door. He didn't notice the attractively plump, dark, and exotic-looking woman sitting at a booth by the door until he heard her order, "House salad and a woah-da, please" in her heavy New Jersey accent. He shifted his chair so that he could watch her without turning his head. He watched her stick her drinking straw into her fat, heavily glossed lips. Her eyes never strayed from the television set in the corner of the diner. "What can I get for you, sir?" the young pimply waiter asked him.

"Uh, I'll have the baked cod," he answered sans eye contact. The waiter left without another word, and the encounter left Aaron feeling slightly uncomfortable. He felt as though he had been found out, as if the adolescent waiter had seen his thoughts about the young, chubby, European diner. Feeling himself blushing, Aaron stared at the bottom of his glass until his bubbling fish was placed in front of him. The greasy scales so repulsed him that he felt he deserved another peek at his muse's plump thighs sticking to the plastic booth seats. He leaned back, forked a piece of flesh off of his plate, and peered over his glass at the lovely, fat specimen in front of him.