Fiction | January 31, 2018
Hunger
Susan Neville
I’m driving down the street and I have an overwhelming urge to take a bite out of my steering wheel, so I do. The steering wheel is black plastic, more like a toy car’s steering wheel than the faux leather-covered wheels my parents had when I was growing up. I don’t know what’s come over me. It doesn’t taste particularly good, and it makes a loud crunching sound against my teeth. It’s like the crispy version of a plastic pen, a familiar though not entirely unpleasant taste. It’s hard to swallow, but I swallow it and take another bite.
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