Vignetti Spaghetti

I found an old photograph on the ground.

In it is a girl, close up, slightly out of focus, slightly overexposed, so that her face is too white and the background is black. She has glossy dark brown hair, cut into a thick, blunt fringe. Her eyes are screwed up small because she's laughing, but her lips are pursed shut. Red-orange is smeared all over them; a strand of spaghetti hangs down over her chin. Her white blouse is stained with the spaghetti sauce. Her mirth bursts out of the photo like a camera flash. 

I can picture it all. The pasta dish thrown together in a ravenous scramble, and scoffed before it had cooled; the forkfull too big for her mouth; the sauce dripping down; the laughter of the photographer; the way it infected her until her mouth was ready to burst like a dam. 

I couldn't help but smile.

I couldn't help but want spaghetti.