Dearest,

The man stared into the artificially lit interior. His right hand held onto the door handle, a tight grip, though not tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. The machine whirred in front of him, its drifting air chilled his protruding belly. His glazed eyes scanned the shelves for something scrumptious. He found it, sitting lopsided behind the half-drank carton of spoiled milk. His grubby, child-like hand reached for it, enclosing it in his fist. He removed the unsealed wrapper and ate. Once done he was still lusting after something delicious to soothe his tastebuds, so he proceeded to stare into the artificially lit interior, his hand still wrapped around the handle.