The Periodic Table of Typefaces
So there in the restaurant, we’re happy and chatting. Good conversation with good company stretches on forever in front of us, much like the demolished plates of food covering the table, when disaster strikes with sensory missiles of purified hate, as the waitress passes in assassin black carrying a serving of something piscine.
I fled for the door faster than light. Outside and away, fresh air, into the rain. Standing still, clutching the rail, letting it hold my weight, I felt better immediately. Then it started to snow. To hell with this, I thought, held my breath and ducked back in. When I left again, still wracked with gut wrenching spasms of fighting reverse peristalsis, I was more prepared. I had my coat, a shawl, two scarfs, and a book. Fifteen minutes or twenty went by before everyone else had finished. A good read.
Now I’m at home, randomly doubling up as my body attempts to cough up the sick rich smell of fish. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least, and I think I just tasted blood. It’s bloody lucky I didn’t accidentally eat any or else I would be too sick to sit up enough to write. My entire weekend would be a miserable write-off. I would be in the bath, poisoned, running hot water, shivering, and possibly hallucinating my death.
Oh sushi, my bane, how vile, how cruel, that you are always the most popular gig in town. You look so damned pretty, glittering just so, arranged delicately, carefully, dotted with a gemstone snow of roe, and yet you make my stomach attempt to turn inside out like a starfish’s stomach, wet and acid and deadly.
Just a note to the internet: Don’t call me tomorrow during the morning.