You're sitting on the metal bench in the corner, with a hot dog in one hand and a crumpled napkin in the other. Johnny’s next to you, chewing his with the kind of desperation one clings to the last shreds of sanity after an endless day.

“Don’t say anything,” he says, mouth half full. “Just eat fast.”

You do as he says. Until you hear the sound.

The unmistakable crunch of Morrissey’s expensive shoes on the pavement.

Johnny doesn’t turn around. He just closes his eyes and says, “If you don’t look at him, he doesn’t exist.”

But he does exist. He’s right there, standing tall like an offended Roman statue, arms crossed and lips pursed as if he’s smelling something dead. His shadow falls over both of you like a cloud bringing not rain, but moral judgment.

“Are you eating… meat?” he finally says. It’s not a question—it’s an accusation.

You try to explain. You really try. But Morrissey’s already raised an eyebrow. You know what that means: emotional death sentence.

Johnny, for his part, has already given up.

“Children caught in the act, eating meat... What a tragedy. What vulgarity.”