Lunch

* The restaurent at the end of the Universe, is where every gourmet fantasy comes true. Specks of basil lie over a half-eaten bowl of fettucine, the momentary grace of aroma fading swiftly. The remnants of greens rest in the salad bowl, leeks, beans and spinach, all limp now. A fine jug of water, transparent as its contents, stands on the table, spout curving away from the sides like a pregnant woman’s full belly in profile. Potent is the chocolate mousse, placid in its little porcelain cup, creamy skin untouched, waiting to be scooped. In the moment between meal and dessert, lies the contented rumbling of the stomach, digestive juices working, clearing the ground inside.

Outside waits a solitary boy, hopping on to the junction plane, where lunch ends and leftovers begin.

* All copyright and apologies to the late Douglas Adams