Smacking, wet lips smile grotesquely. Small pieces of his Monday morning apple become even smaller inside his gaping mouth. He can’t swallow fast enough to keep up with the constant flow of saliva and juice released from the grinding of his molars on the fruit’s flesh. It collects in pools at the corners of his mouth. Lick. A few lucky bits escape as he talks about his weekend. They spray out to the foor.

God knows I wish I could escape this conversation like one of those ejected bits of apple. I never mastered the art of leaving forced conversations smoothly. It never fails to end in a way that is unsettling and weird. Inhaling through my mouth to avoid the foul smells being generated, I focus intently on ensuring he cannot see my disgust.

“So, how was yours?” He asked between deafening munches.
“Nothing special… I need to get to that pile of work now.” I say, pointing at my desk.
“Oh…ok,” he says with a strange look. My cheek feels wet and I can no longer contain my disgust.

I hate apple Monday.