Claiming the Platter

I marched three blocks down the sidewalk straight to the diner because that midday shake didn't even begin to hold me over. The second I shoved through the heavy glass door, the smell of sizzling griddle grease hit me. Right on the stainless steel pass shelf under the glowing red heat lamp sat a double bacon cheeseburger flanked by a massive mound of curly fries. The cook had his back turned scraping down the flat-top, taking sweet time while I was starving. I didn't wait around for an invitation. I gripped both edges of the scorching metal platter and dragged it firmly across the pass toward my chest. Dinner belongs to me now.