This was a quick, little writing prompt I took a stab at.
Bob and I were having a conversation over a cup of coffee at the local coffee shop. We were really just kidding around when the discussion became rather serious. "You know, I've been meaning to tell someone about this... Problem I have. I can't quit doing it."
"Okay, I don't think anyone around is listening" I nested with him. "Besides, how bad can it be?"
"Well, it's not a real socially acceptable action, and a little embarrassing." Bob sighed a little and began to tell a story about when he was young. "As a child, I began picking my nose. It seemed innocent. My mother would tell me that 'it was nasty and to keep my fingers away from my nose.' I just couldn't stop. The way that crusty, almost glue-like mucus breaks free from inside your nostrils, its sudden freedom"!
Silently, I gagged a little bit. But Bob didn't stop there; the conversation dipped into a lower realm of "unsavoriness" if you will.
"Sometimes, I just can't get them off my fingers. They're too sticky, or slimy."
"What do you do, then"? I asked, "You keep a handkerchief around, right? Maybe some Kleenex?"
"No," Bob says to me with his held down now. "I eat them. That's my real addiction. I love the taste, I love the texture of my own dried mucus. It has a salty, but a slight bitter taste to it. I often ingest them without even realizing I'm doing it."
I felt I had to leave. I needed to get somewhere where I could scream, cry, cough; get this new information out of my conscientious. I looked at my watch and said to Bob "Look at the time, I need to get back home." We both stood. Bob raised his hand to shake mine when a sudden thought occurred to me, what if Bob doesn't wash his hands?
A part of me died that day talking to Bob.