This morning before I logged in to work, I strolled to my favourite dimsum place just a block away from my place. The sky was particularly cloudless and bright blue, the sunshine hazy and warm. But all I thought about was the ginger mushroom chicken on a bed rice — the delicious savoury taste already flooding my mind even before a spoonful of morsel has hit my tongue.
I arrived at the dimsum shop, and I was greeted by a masked hunk: solid arms and strong hands that could have kneaded a thousand rice flour wrappings without breaking a sweat; a handsome chest that wonderfully stretched the fabric of his shirt; kind eyes that made my heart flutter.
“What can I get you?” he asked, breaking my thirsty trance.
“Ginger mushroom chicken, please,” I croaked.
I nodded, clearing my throat.
He handed me a box of the steaming delicious meal, all the while thinking how delicious he may taste too.
I ate slowly at my desk when I logged in to work.