A big, sticky puddle of 99% plastic sounded like it would really hit the spot about then, but David quickly gave up on any defense of his suburban palate. The guy in front of him was moving as though in stop motion, or not really moving at all, or time was wrong, or David was just seeing things again, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut, then rub them hard with his knuckles until they were sparking white behind his lids. Even then, he kept his hands pressed there, mouth set in a grimace while he tried to centre himself, remember his meditation and connect to something real that he could feel. Not the utensils starting to rattle in the drawer, those were too real, those were getting a little loud.