There’s the dull drone of students talking and their shoes thudding up the stairs. The microwave beeps repeatedly, then hums lowly, producing a sickly yellow light, while the heater makes a soft growling noise to my right. The chair I’m sitting in squishes slightly under my weight. As I sit, my hand moves to my left, picking up a rectangular object. The texture is mostly soft and grainy, save for the edges, where it gets solid, but not enough to prevent my grip from crushing it slightly. As my hand starts to move back toward my face, I feel my stomach growl. Papers are being shuffled through to my right, and the contents of a bowl are being squished with a fork. My teeth meet together and my mouth is met with the same soft texture as my hand. It’s a rather nutty flavor that hits my tongue; coating and sticking to the roof of my mouth, where I can feel my saliva do little to keep my mouth from drying out.
My hand then picks up a box to my left, bringing it up, for my lips to curl around the small plastic tube poking out of it. Pushing the air back in my throat, my tongue is met with the liquid it desires. The liquid is watery and sweet, in stark contrast to the mass glued to the top of my mouth, which slowly dislodges and is muscled down. Bags are crinkling, and keys are jingling as people mill about the room, looking for a desirable spot to sit down. My next target is a plastic bag, which my fingers pull apart with a snap. The plastic is smooth, almost clinging against my skin – it’s strange. Regardless, I reach into the bag, and grab a few triangular fragments. They’re solid and grainy, and leave small particles all over my fingers. Salty, with a distinct crunch that seems very loud inside my mouth. When a piece gets stuck against the face of my tooth, my tongue flattens, trying to rub the piece out of the nook of my teeth.
Another day, another peanut butter sandwich with apple juice and chips in Driscoll commons consumed before class.