chewing slowly

On last Wednesday before fellowship I was waiting for the bus and realised something was amiss.

I used to look for the bus with a desperate kind of necessity, as if the bus carried my breath and every minute it took to arrive was an asphyxiation gasp. On Wednesday I realised I was looking for the bus, while thinking of whether I would feel cold in the room later on, whether I ought to eat my dinner at the church or at the benches outside the art museum,and who on earth invented squares when they are so rare in nature and why do humans like squares so much and why did we decide we need a name for shapes anyway - no longer was my mind fixated with single unwavering intensity on the arrival of my journey - is this normal?

As I made my way to the church, I focused on walking slowly - something my friends know is not in my nature. (Weixin and I sometimes wonder if we're close because we often walk ahead of the rest of the group together, our leg frequency pitched higher than theirs, like how whales with complementary frequencies become mates)

I sat in the church and ate the dinner I had prepared in the 5 minute rush I always have before leaving the house, and ate it slowly, chewing. (Mum says Grandad told them to chew each mouthful 40 times before swallowing for good health, although it does not prevent cancer)

I thought of 'I am Sam' and wondered if he would be proud of me.

                      Long pause.  Rita slowly eats her pie.

                                SAM (CONT'D)
                      It's good to chew.  You're eating more
                      slowly.
     
                               Rita laughs and nods.