The Kit Kat Story

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
I'd walked into a coffee bar. I bought myself a coffee and a Kit Kat. What kind of story can this possibly be...

Submitted: November 08, 2014

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Submitted: November 08, 2014



It had been a good enough day. Not extraordinary. I’d finished my errands, given to me by my wife of forty-two years, and then managed to find a coffee shop that didn’t in some way resemble a Google boardroom. That said, even the small coffee shop I’d walked into was packed, people were waiting in line. I didn’t think there’d be much chance of a seat at any of the tables. I remember I picked up a Kit Kat to enjoy along with my coffee, and as I finished my purchase a woman got up from the table where she’d been sitting next to a handsome black chap, ‘Tiger Woods’ handsome, well dressed, and reading the New York Times in what I considered to be a very old fashioned way. Spread out between his arms and held up in front of his face. I peered over the top of the newspaper and asked if I might occupy the vacant seat? He briefly brought together the page extremities, smiled, which I chose to interpret as having no issue with my request, and then widened his paper again. It’d been a hectic morning. I’d spent an hour in a grocery store, and left the store considering the lack of shopping etiquette; shopping carts used as a means to block other shoppers from navigating the aisles. So it felt good just to sit down and relax. I sat for a couple of minutes observing what American’s do when having coffee. I turned back to take a sip of my coffee find my table companion eating my Kit Kat, having opened it, broken off two fingers, and settled back into his paper. Here’s the thing, I mean I’d heard so many stories about the effrontery of Americans, but this, well this was a stretch. Being an Englishman I felt unable to accept that this kind of audacity, carried out by a young man who appeared to be perfectly sane, obviously intelligent, would go ahead and eat my Kit Kat!

Several things, I recall, ran simultaneously through my mind. Either he was insane, had a gun, or was starving…none of which made too much sense. Having been resident in the United States for just two months, I was already confused by many things, naturally most of them being contradictory to the culture I’d left when seeking a better way of life, more sunshine, better food, and a place to improve the value of my pension!

While I’m trying to put all this together in my head, and as if he needed to improve on the effrontery, he proceeded to finish up the rest of my Kit Kat. Not only did he finish, but returned my stare incredulity as if I was in some way to blame for his hunger! It was a standoff. I stared him down, he stared back. I couldn’t simply let him do this, take advantage of me. I was trying to think what my first verbal remark might be: ‘I’m sorry you’re starving, can I buy you another?’ And was about to say just this when he stood up, revealing his six-feet-seven-inches of muscled torso, and went back to the now empty counter where he purchased a blueberry muffin!

Having returned to the table, he sat his purchase down, then left again in the direction of the rest room.

‘Thank you, Lord,’ I mumbled to myself, ‘for presenting me this opportunity.’ I grabbed the muffin and took the hugest bite my mouth could accommodate before I picked up my coffee and left.

This would, I believed, teach the gentleman that fooling around with an Englishman is never going to be as simple as picking up his Kit Kat and eating it. Feeling distinctly satisfied with the outcome, even though I looked like a chipmunk, my mouth still full of muffin, I reached my car. I put my hand in my pocket for my car keys, only to pull out my OWN Kit Kat!

The blueberry muffin, pasty in my mouth, simply refused to go down my throat! My color flushed, my hands, I vividly recall, started to tremble! I could have gone back, maybe explained what I believed had happened, but remembered he was a six-feet-seven-inch athlete, and I’m a five-foot-seven-inch, seventy-year-old gnome!

So I did what thousands of years of being English has taught me, and sounded the retreat!

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