I reached out and dipped my fingers in the sauce on the edge of the bowl, then put them in my mouth to lick several times.
As the hunger vanished, I closed the takeout box.
There was a short message on it, too. "Lillian, I prepared those nuggets for you. Do you like them? Are you still hungry?"
I became sober from the frenzy of hunger and looked at the small words above, feeling vaguely uneasy.
Who ordered the takeout for me?
I took out my phone, hesitated for a while and sent a text message to Dylan Roberts, my boyfriend: [Dylan, did you order some chicken nuggets for me?]
He didn't reply to me instantly, so I had to force myself to sleep with uneasiness.
After all, I was a white-collar worker, not a housewife who only revolved around her husband.
I was woken up by the growling of my stomach, even though I had a greasy midnight snack a few hours ago. My stomach was empty after sleeping, as if I had eaten nothing the night before.
Walking into the elevator in my high heels with unsteady steps, I saw the housewife, Nora Jones, I met in the elevator yesterday.
I nodded to her as a greeting, and then stood behind her.
She smelt good...
"What are you doing!" She yelled and pushed me away.