The Hunger

What does it mean when the best part of an already amazing five-day long weekend was biting down into a hot, oily, juicy sandwich stuffed to the brink with thick slices of salami and pepperoni, smothered in melted mozzarella cheese and sprinked with sliced black olives and peppers. 
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I had a Ratatouille moment.  Things faded away, colours started swirling and beautiful silence drowned my ears.  All I heard were the salty meats staking hold in my mouth, all I saw was the melted strings of cheese pulling between my lips and the bread, and all I tasted was complete, absolute, incandescent happiness.  My senses all merged and swooped, did backflips and somersauts, they didnt know what the fuck was going on.
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I was on a quasi-date and the gentleman across from me was in the middle of some rant, or anecdote, or maybe it was a tirade, but I couldnt register any sound coming from his mouth.  Both of my hands were greased in a nice covering of meaty and cheesy oil and when I looked up to see his mouth flapping, we locked eyes.  And just like that, I fell out of my Ratatouille moment as sharply and suddenly as the snap from a rubber band.  I was able to function again.  My eyes focused instanly like the twist of a microscope and my ears turned to maximum volume. I was transported back.

After that sandwich, I havent quite been full again.