Fried Chicken and Existential Crumbs: One Man’s Lunch Break Meltdown at Lawson

Gustavo had conquered his morning workload like a caffeinated warrior—half a shift’s worth of spreadsheets slain before noon. But victory came with a greasy price. His go-to lunch savior, Gaspar the home-cooked meal hustler, had ghosted the office. No adobo. No sinigang. Just silence and hunger.

So Gustavo descended the corporate tower like a man condemned, muttering curses at the culinary void. The elevator doors closed slowly, trapping him with his thoughts.

“Why did Gaspar have to be absent today? Here I go again. Fried chicken, fried siomai, fried bean sprouts, fried longganisa, fried luncheon meat… what’s next?!

Fried Coke?! Damn convenience stores! Damn office! Why can’t there be a damn eatery with some damned food that’s not damned fried?! It’s not like I’m conscious of my health… BUT DAMN!

He arrived at Lawson, the fluorescent-lit temple of deep-fried despair. A cheerful clerk greeted him with a chirpy “Lawson Morning!”—a phrase that sounded like a corporate spell designed to suppress existential dread.

Filipino office workers pass a Lawson convenience store at lunch, as one tired man hesitates outside, dreading another fried meal.

 “Give me one piece fried damn… a... este… fried chicken. Dine in,” he muttered, defeated.

As he paid, he noticed the clerk’s radiant smile. “Damn! She’s cute,” he thought. “Well, at least my eyes are fed well.”

Gustavo sat beside a teenage cologne enthusiast who looked like he’d just stepped out of a TikTok influencer starter pack. Designer clothes, expensive phone, and a scent that could only be described as “Eau de Gym Locker.”

“Damn! No cologne can mask that stench! Why aren’t you at school anyway? The smell’s an assault on my nasal cavity! You may look cool, kid, but you ain’t getting chicks with that stench. Damn it! I can’t eat like this!”

He scanned the half-empty store for a better seat, ready to relocate. But as he leaned forward, he glanced down—and realized his plate was empty. His fingers glistened with the grease of a chicken leg that had vanished during his internal rant.

 “Damn… I guess it’s back to work.”

Lunch may be done, but Gustavo’s thoughts linger. Join him later that night in Alone at Night: A Short Story on Solitude, Memory, and Quiet Reflection.