Questions I Have For The Hot Guy That Delivers Lunch To Our Office After He Didn’t Show Up Today

Where have you gone, Hot Delivery Guy?

Where were you when I needed you most — lunchtime, the most vulnerable time of day — while some strange man fondled the foods that should have been delicately delivered with your gentle touch?

Have I angered you, my peach? Did I do something to offend or hurt you? Did I scare you away?

Do you know how I’ve missed you?

Do you know how I’ve missed your untucked flannel shirt, the way it looked both disheveled and perfectly composed all at once, as it twisted across your torso while you set down each tray, full of breads and succulent meats?

Do you know how I’ve missed your fitted jeans, the way they bunched above your boots, the boots with which you drudged through the snow, fighting the elements, my almighty prince, to deliver me my feast?

Do you know how much I’ve missed your full hair, the strands that dangled before your rounded glasses, behind which your beautiful eyes glanced from clipboard to countertop, assessing the food you carried so carefully?

Whose attention must I pine for now?

What reason have I to eat?

Who am I to dream of while I place each lukewarm piece of meal upon my tongue?

How could you leave me this way? How could you leave our children, the ones I’d imagined we’d conceived atop a steaming tray of rice, between the warm tortillas and the glistening cubes of taco beef? How could you leave me with this fantasy?

When will I see you again, Hot Delivery Guy? When will you return with your bountiful gifts?

When will you free me of this pain?