Schmuckumentary

The Angriest Burger said it would hurt.
The copywriter promised that.

Red buns, dyed for full effect,
loud enough to dare you
before you taste anything.

I even detoured to the drive-thru.
A small decision
that felt like commitment.

First bite.

I waited.

That’s it?

There’s spice, yes.
A small, polite heat
at the back of the tongue,
something you could work with.

But angry?

The only angry it managed
was how it made me.

—

I picked the Red Devil off the shelf
because of the bottle—
Lucifer on it,
horns, the whole thing.

The art department really sold it.

I dipped fried chicken into it,
trusting the demon to deliver.

Took a bite.

Nothing.

Not delayed.
Not even mild.

I checked the label
like I missed a line,
like there was a version of it
I wasn’t accessing.

Cayenne. Water. Vinegar.

The burger, at least,
left some burn
you could point to.
Small, but there.

This didn’t even bother.

—

There’s a specific feeling
when your body has already braced—
tongue forward, eyes closed,
waiting
for the wave to hit—

and the wave doesn’t come.

Your own readiness suddenly embarrassing.
You sit there long enough
to be sure.

I still check the shelves.
Scan the menu.

Sometimes
that’s all there is—

you,
set up for a moment,
should heat be there
to meet it.

The reviews looked good.