Junkie

    Miss California should be the object of my desire, all ammonia-blonde hair and C-average Business Major smile. She leans out the drive thru window, the golden arches stretching suggestively over a shit brown uniform. But this girl is merely a vessel; muscles strain neatly under electric-tan skin, supporting the bulk of my cholesterol laden feast. My drug of choice.

    The bag, blotched with tempting brown sweat stains, threatens to purge its contents onto the pavement, an avalanche of supple, glistening double cheeseburgers and sugary sweet apple pies. I reach for the bag, the skin of my arms hanging limp and useless, puckered with tales of indulgence. I can almost taste fries so salty they might have been boiled in tears, when I notice bright young eyes scoping out the backseat of my mid-sized sedan. She nosily surveys a growing mountain of used and tossed wrappers, still crusted with dried, once-white mayo, the sideways towers of phallic Slurpee cups laid to waste by a ravenous carnal appetite. A flicker of disgust sweeps over her west-coast features.

    The bounty dips between us, as if to make its final swan dive onto the blacktop below. Snatching the precious bag from her finely manicured fingers, I plop the forbidden sack of caloric bliss onto my sprawling lap, speeding away with my conquest, fast as a heart attack.



235 Words.