cup o' noodle.

his father poured the water, still whistling, into the styrofoam bowl, over the dessicated noodles and vegetable bits. the boy wanted to peek, to see the transformation from dry to wet and palatable, but the father unfurled the raised edge of the paper-foil cover and pressed the edges flat, concealing everything. as if to prevent the boy's intrusive curiosity, the father laid his chopsticks lengthwise across it, like a bolt in a lock.

as the boy stared hungrily and intently at the styrofoam bowl with its hidden contents, strange thoughts seemed to bubble in his head: how his own haircut was a bowl, not unlike the flat hemisphere of the styrofoam before him; and how noodle was another word for brain, probably because the brain inside of his head was just like a bunch of noodles, all tangled up. the boy had a strange thought just then: were his "noodles" cooked, or were they still dried up and frozen, waiting for someone to pour boiling water into his skull? and, if so, who? who would want to eat his boring, miserable noodles?