Bad Food

The anthropomorphic frog kept glancing at me. I was just trying to swallow something masquerading itself as a turkey sandwich. He sat there, hardly moving, waiting lazily for a fly to wander near. Now and then his pink tongue shot out, snatching a troublesome insect from the air. I left my money on the table, along with a good three or more bites of my inedible dinner. He watched me the whole way to the door. Standing there a moment, looking through the glass onto the summer street, I turned again to see that frog, his bulging eyes locked on my person. I waved, he stared on, unmoving, and I left.

(Why did I write this? Is this an ending? I have no excuses for myself.)