I wear separate faces for lunch and dinner.

My lunch face orders “请来一磅鸡腿”

My dinner face inquires “which pâté would work well in a sandwich?”

My lunch face devours the fried chicken drumettes indiscriminately, lukewarm flesh and ligament altogether.

My dinner face requests to re-heat the tepid seasonal quiche, carefully sectioning with a fork and knife.

My lunch face roams the streets, crunching and tossing the bones in front of God and everyone.

My dinner face searches for a private table indoors, strategically placing my stuff to take up a polite amount of space.

My lunch face approaches the French cafe, tucking away the box o’ chicken into my backpack in exchange for my dinner mask.

My dinner mask leaves the French cafe, slipping away so I can menace the public with my final pieces of leftover chicken.