Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I considered going over to Rice but the vegetarian meatballs would be expensive and that's a restaurant for girls. What I wanted was a 12-inch chicken parmigiana hero; I wanted to ride the red horse. I put that out of mind, but dammit what? Another BLT? (Sodium.) Tuna salad? (Mayonnaise.) I was soon trading, with myself, the caloric equivalent of junk derivatives. Finally I ended up too hungry to think and wandering through busy traffic to a sandwich shop. There were no good choices, only delicious ones. I heard the door close behind me and I knew what had happened. It was all ritual now. I ordered--“grilled chicken spread with ricotta, nestled in a tomato/basil sauce with shreds of fresh mozzarella,” which is, roughly, a chicken parmigiana hero, but without the breaded and fried. The Mamma Mia. Food lends itself to anthro­po­morph­izing. Take any supermarket item and picture it with tiny legs and arms. A lump of steak, a loaf of bread. An apple. A box of milk with little legs walking around and looking at things, and when it turns its back to you, you see that in the missing-child-photo box there's a picture of the anthropomorphic milk carton itself. Back at the office in a lightheaded fog I decided to respect this sandwich, learn from our time. But the unveiling, when the foil was peeled, is all I remember. It was like when they dip the cow into the piranha tank. I found myself, a minute or two later, seated at my desk, shirt unbuttoned, hunched over, holding a lonely inch of tomato-smeared roll. It must be much like this when one is a dog.