Karen wants some rice.
She lied before when she said she didnt want any. She was trying to be suave, to be cool, to be unattached to the rice.
The smell is now wafting its way to her up-turned nose, delineating the perfect yellow of the Spanish rice she had fallen in love with at her first fiesta shortly after bashing the piñata with a large bat. She wants it like a toddler wants a puppy batting around a ball in a pet store window.
Her over-zealous-rice-eating family is over-zealously eating the rice more quickly as the seconds go by. Each grain that is forked into their mouths is one less for her. She hates them.
This is ridiculous. Why did she refuse the rice in the first place? She wanted that rice. She wanted it bad.
Slowly they eat. Slowly she salivates.
This is torture for Karen.