Everyone who knows anything about me knows that I love French Fries. What people may not know is that I used to love French Fries even more than I do now.
8pm; home alone; hungry. I think the Chinese place is still open. They make the best French Fries in the same grease they make the fried chicken. The salt and ketchup they pile on enhances every bite. Three blocks there – Three blocks back. I grab my keys and head out. Success – fries in plastic bag, 2 blocks down, right foot on my block.
Someone on the sidewalk grabbed me by the shoulder and thew me to the ground behind a parked car. They held me in place with the weight of their body. I couldn’t see their face and they refused to let me go. And then I heard them – gun shots – in my direction. They would have hit me from behind. I didn’t notice anything or anyone out of place. Release. I took off down the rest of the block, through the lobby, up the stairs, and into my apartment where I stood trembling in front of the locked door.
I still had my French Fries but they never tasted quite the same.