Food was like that too; every real flavor a layering. A mango from back home was flowered sourness and honey, buttery heft, slivers of green bitterness in the flesh near its skin. But every part of the Wendy’s sandwich had a single note. The faintly sweet bun, the crunch and salt of the patty, the mayonnaised slick of wilted lettuce. I ate it like it was the food of the gods. This is what it is like to be hungry: you are on fire, smoke suffusing you, the heat inside impossible to ignore. What it is like to be hungry: time loses meaning, turns elastic and useless, traps you in knots. What it is
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