A scavenger-type animal hovers on the edge of the feed, waiting for the scraps of sated appetites.
It is a long and hungry wait, as most of the feeders finish their portions, and those that don't dispose of the unwanted remains.
This doesn't seem to be out of any particular malice toward the scavengers, as the feeders seem oblivious to his presence, but rather from a compulsive tidiness.
Finally, he spots an appetizing morsel, and moves in to partake. The feeder whose appetite seems to have failed him, is still nearby. As the scavenger reaches toward the food, the former feeder snarls, and goes into a hostile stance. This feeder is a rogue male, unkempt, perhaps sickly, in contrast to the healthy groups and families around him. An aura of malevolence surrounds him like some foul effluvium.
"Is this yours? You're not going to eat it?" the scavenger asks.
"Yeah. Let the person who's supposed to take it away, take it away."
The scavenger sits down.
"I'll call security," the rogue feeder threatens. He wears a gray sweatshirt and three days' worth of gray stubble on his prematurely middle-aged face. His shirt sports the word "Nothing" in large, black capitals.
"Go ahead," says the scavenger as he picks up the fork.
He is younger, healthier, and more importantly, hungrier. It is the hunger which drives him, which makes him call the bluff.
"F*ck off, prick," the rogue male hisses, almost resignedly.
The scavenger, recognizing his victory, takes the tray to the other end of the food court, to consume it in safety.