Sunflower seeds are his favorite snack, and I wonder why he takes so much joy from putting far too much work into harvesting far too little. He dumps the seeds into his mouth by the pawful, tilting his head back to catch the cascade of shells on the slab that is his tongue.
I have no knowledge of the process by which the seeds are extracted from their casing, and frankly, I don't think my stomach could handle that knowledge. But once the task is done the empty shells are catapulted from his mouth and into a red plastic cup through a combination of tongue thrust, an expulstion of air, and a little lip wiggle.
I can't watch.
Over and over he repeats the process, ten or so seeds at a time. A pile of unmasticated seeds shrinks slowly before him, becoming only a scattering on its paper towel throne. Scoop, gape, dump, crunch, dribble dribble dribble. Scoop, gape, dump, crunch dribble dribble dribble.
I hide my face behind my computer monitor, bulging my cheeks in a pantomime of nausea. I'm afraid of what I might say if I let my disgust get the better of me. He really is a nice man...but he has no wife to tell him he's gross.