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SHORT FICTION
How Casually Referring to My Lunch as βThe Ritualβ Stopped Coworkers From Stealing My Food
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It started with theft. Repeated, unrepentant violation. My food, carefully prepared, stolen from the communal fridge, reduced to scraps or, worse, vanished entirely. I would sit at my desk, stomach empty, fingers twitching. No one confessed. No one feared consequences. That had to change.
So I began The Ritual.
At first, it was subtle. A sharp hiss as I removed my container from the fridge. βEe-ah! Ee-ah! Zee Kee-ah Kahn-pah.β I didnβt look up, didnβt explain. A pause here, a sigh there, a slow, deliberate movement of my fork. The timing was important. Each action had to flow seamlessly into the next β the careful unsealing of the container, the precise unfolding of the napkin, the first bite taken at exactly the moment the microwave beep echoed into silence down the halls. It was a rhythm, a ceremony refined over stolen meals and quiet rage.
