burtlo

Before the year was out, we had moved into the Oakwood apartments - an apartment with a layout that afforded me a bedroom, a bed, and my own personal bathroom. The apartments were located several blocks west in the same provincial Van Nuys. Being strategically positioned on Sherman Way Blvd. a mere hop from Sepulveda, afforded us the opportunity as a family to fatten our fumbling fingers on the gourmet delicacies at the illustrious, walk-up dining of Foster's Freeze. Fudge-stain lips applying long, forceful pressure on fickle straws - pumping fat into the deep cheeks of our chubby faces. It was marvelous.

Theresa turned to me at one point, beer-batter crumbs collecting at the edges of her mouth as her lips moved as she chewed out words. A frosted-glass, grease-glazed onion snaked about in her mouth. Still within the exposition of my eggnog 'high', my bugged eyes focused in on her as my head churned the straw filled with the thick rich cream.

"Wouldn't you rather," she stopped for air and then another ring went in. "...after a bad day pig out with a big fatty milkshake then be encouraged to run around the block?" Our eyes meeting for a brief moment before our bodies kicked out a few more CCs of Neuropeptides. We both redouble our efforts towards the task at end.

I stop for air, responding quickly before nearly impaling myself back down onto my straw. "Yeah, yeah, ye.." comes out as I begin to feel the phlegm barrier forming at the back of my throat. Now across the street and passing a gas station, my milkshake is halfway finished.

The rest of the walk is in silence. When we've reached the gated front door of the apartments, I milk the last drop from the shake container. As Theresa types in the five-digit pass code I begin to hack as the phlegm tethered to my palatine uvula has plastic wrapped the dorsum of my tongue and begins creeping slowly over my epiglottis.

Thirty minutes later, I'm asleep.