The tale of the chicken pita pockets @tchbombay

He held his head high, always. But he remembered to keep his feet grounded. Because he knew that in the end, confidence was merely a display of self worth. So he strode into the restaurant, leaving behind a trail of his swag. And as he sat on the table, he struck the already nervous waitress with his mischievous smile. He pointed out to the menu and said, “get me one of these, gorgeous.” Taking him to be an important person, they scuttled around trying to get his order in place. He dived right into the dish as the waitress presented it to him with a shy smile—not forgetting to wink at her before he did so. And for the next two and a half minutes, as he gobbled up the shredded chicken and strings of beetroot, everything else was forgotten. But then, as he licked the last remnants of the sauce from his fingers, his dream broke. The waitress was back with something else. He smiled at her generously and said, “I haven’t ordered this.” She turned pink and replied, “it’s complimentary.” And after a pause, she said, “from me”. He thanked her profusely before diving into it again. Little did they know that he had money enough only for the chicken pita pockets. And was not really an important person in life. But in that restaurant, he was. And that’s what mattered.

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