I’ll take the cookie. 
The cookie. 
THE COOKIE!

His eyes widen a bit, a scowl. 
It’s the mask. The nature of
sound. The hum of jet engines. 
Impatience. Glorious sugar. 

I get the pretzels. Probably not a 
passive aggressive reproach. 
Probably not. 

They’re all carbs, salt. 
Four percent DV fat. Not even a
mention of protein. 

I leave the pretzels tucked behind
the safety card, the magazine,
an offer of sixty-five thousand miles.
After I crush them. 

Two can play at that game.