Itching

Would it be right to scratch it? It’s as if a herd of ants are marching in a circle right above his anus. He has lots to do, in the madness of the kitchen with all the other waiters running around bringing in new orders picking up the plates. He checks the plates. The design. Quality control. That’s his job. He checks the last tray. Table fourteen. Poulet aux Porto, mushroom cream sauce needs to be slightly cleared on the right side of the plate, it itches. Truite aux Amandes, fish needs a crown of basil, when did this fish die, did it feel it itches before he could scratch? Carre d’Agneau, he couldn’t bear the sight of bones but made sure things are cleanly arranged with the, when done with table fourteen he felt the battle field of ants down in his pants. There was no time to go to bathroom. Itching is only a feeling on my skin. Table 23 Crepe au fromage de Brie, feelings are feelings. Like I can smell this handsome Brie now. Table 23 is ready. Like I can feel those freaks marching, I’m feeling them. But I’m not my feelings now. I am my job. I can appreciate the freaks’ effort. Escargots Bourguignon for table 17. He looks at the order for a beat, touching one of the snails. He really likes snails he thinks with their slowness and spiral mobile houses. Table 17 is ready. He pushes the tray. Ants are gone.