I think I'll have the tofu, thank you.

Staring at an empty plate. Wishing with all the imagination contained in the pint-sized cranium for something to appear. Gazing longingly at the plethora of appetizers, entrees and desserts piled high at all the other tables. Their intended recipients laughing gaily; forks, knives and spoons poised and ready.

The light stretches with all its might to attempt to reach the far corners of the booth, yet it only barely licks the edges of the chipped wood at its outer rim. The shadows envelope the cracked leather seats, and mock the feeble attempts of the dusty globe entrusted with its illumination.

A coffee cup, long emptied of its contents sits abandoned on its companion, the saucer, who has forgotten the swirling vines and daisies which once adorned its surface. A tarnished tea spoon sighs softly as it rests gently on the saucer's lip, with little anticipation of being lifted any time soon. The plate, which one held itself and its created companions in high esteem, no longer protests to being paired with these un-matching counterparts.

Through the din of the room, the thick aura of the dingy enclosure seemed to create an eerie ambiance, as though submerged under water. The idle chatter and clinking of celebratory flutes becomes muted beneath a furrowed brow. The rhythm of breath is only interrupted by an occasional stuttered inhalation; broken as the lungs resist desired depth.

If hasty words escape from behind teeth that have (perhaps accidentally) unclenched themselves, the implications are stark.

That I know what I want.

But what I really want is meat.

And yet my ears ring as the resonance echoes scornfully all the way down into the labored beating of my heart. "I think I'll have the tofu, thank you."