The teenage cashier at the pizza parlor looks like someone I used to love
when I was her age—when on good days my face resembled an order of
extra cheese, and on bad days something like double pepperoni. I assume
she was a vegan since she never bothered to learn my name.
I gave the familiar face an extra dollar for the ride through Feel Sorry For
Myself Lane and walked back to my car, holding the box away from my
body as if a cardboard delicacy destined for royalty, past the gastric bypass
clinic where the round women stared at me from the other side of the glass
with paper-mâché eyes, as if I crushed their wallflower spirits at Prom
thirty years ago.
(originally published at NEW WAVE VOMIT)