u s e y o u r h a n d s

She reached into the bag for another chocolate and was dismayed to discover only one left. She put the chocolate on the table gently, like a sacred thing, crumpled up the bag and threw it across the room. The plastic ball springs open like a live thing when it hits the floor. The candy’s foil wrapper sparkles seductively, but she reclines into the couch and waits. Saliva pools in her mouth and her tongue puckers.

There is a war between the chocolate and herself, and she knows she will lose, because she will be the first one to reach out. But there is also a love affair. The chocolate is coy and coquettish, knowing all the time she will be devoured.

She picks up the chocolate and slowly peels the wrapper off and balls it between her fingers before tossing it toward the discarded bag. It ricochets off the wall and rolls under a chair. In her head, she’s got this whole idea about how she’s going to eat the last candy, but she changes her mind. The windows are open. Nobody can see her, but she starts to think the last candy ritual is dumb. Instead, she pops it in her mouth, but the anticipation makes her mouth hurt when it meets such flavor.

This lady at work has a daughter chronically sick with strep throat. She mentioned that the doctors are discussing the removal of tonsils.

I had my tonsils removed in my sixteenth year. I was out of school for more than two weeks and developed a love affair with liquid codeine and the movie JFK. I’d wake up, stir more liquid codeine into warm apple juice, go to the bathroom, and rewind the movie. For weeks. I recorded my copy of JFK off tv, and all the curse words were dubbed over with “frick” and “motherfletcher.”