Salt and Timber

I slithered past the fractured wax shell, tracking the dry scent of toasted wheat spilling from the open canvas lunch sack. Propped against the bag's woven strap lay a thick, stiff pretzel rod, rigid and flecked with coarse white crystals. I looped my glistening folds around its baked flank, measuring its brittle defenses with a low, wet flex of my mass. Bracing against the polished timber of the bench, I threw my heavy rubber bulk straight down across its center. The rod fractured with a sharp, resonant snap, splitting cleanly in two and showering crumbs across the dark wood. I ground my underside into the salty wreckage, subduing the prize beneath my coils.