What happens when you get something in your email inbox that says "Heritage Red Wattle Smoked Pork Chops" will be at your local market in a few days? Besides moving all around in your desk chair so it looks like you have ants in your pants, feel your mouth water uncontrollably, and resist the urge to call your local drug dealer, Fatted Calf, and tell them you NEED that RIGHT NOW, nothing.
What can you do but wait? It hurts, but you have to wait. The market opens in 52 hours, surely that's not too long to wait for manna, right? It could be so much worse. It could be a mangosteen which might never come to your continent, or the Ortolan, which is going extinct.
You get to the market. It's there, scratched in chalk innocently on a little chalkboard. The drug dealers smile, right out in the open. They have what you want. What will you have to do to get some? For some insane reason they still have them, even though it's almost noon.
Or they've run out and not erased those words, Heritage Red Wattle Smoked Pork Chops, yet. They're testing you. It's working, you're sweating, can't concentrate on your lover's words. All you can think is