Fruit Snacks

“Murry has to tell a story,” She said

“I felt like eating Dark Chocolate Icing and some Milk, a spoon. The viscous dark creamy sweet material sits on the spoon. It fills the spoon, just to the top of the silver spoon. It enters my mouth with accomplishment. The tongue wraps around the spoon and starts evaluating. It feels safe and rests.

I poured milk earlier. I used a ceramic cup I made. The cup is wonky, not right; it shouldn’t be used for liquids, chunky with glazes that create a universe. The depth at the bottom of the cup is endless but not cold. I ingest the milk and close my mouth with swollen cheeks. I swish the mixture around through the cracks of my teeth. Ecstatic joy, orgasm, and addiction, it feels amazing, the milk compliments the sugary substance with an intellect that breaks down the dark substance to its raw form.

Again!

Again.

I push the limits three more times becoming more unnerved as I go.  There is a pain, Sickness.  I can’t stop. I ingest. Consume that’s all I do. Me oar, and me oar. Puke sits on a ledge in my mind, bile and saliva, acidic, green and black, the chocolate mix. It ends my erect pleasures with a spoon, a single explosive force of liquid into the lips of the mouth.”

Murry laughed alone. He finished his beer in a few minutes and left.

Murry waited at the heavy beige door. The hallway was lit but not bright, dingy. The hallway looked like a midrange hotel.  The hall was painted white and chalk yellow. He didn’t knock. She opened the door after a minute or two of him digesting the numb sterilizing uncertainty of the hallway. He was glad to see her; it’s been a few days since they were together.

“It’s okay I wasn’t out there long.”

He entered the apartment and into her room. It’s also mutely lit but warmer then the hallway.

“That hallway could use a few pieces of art and a nice purple carpet.” Murry exhaled. The carpet is grey, the type of grey that the lungs of a 50 year old smoker has.

“Uhhh okay, I guess I’ve never noticed it. It’s not like I spend anytime out there to care.”  

They came into her room, took off their shoes, some of their clothing, and lounged on the bed. They both nestled into a hearty prune colored blanket that had a similar texture.

"What’s up? How was your day?”

He knew the story would be mundane. It seemed to be the same most of the time.

“It was fine. I worked in the morning then wandered around for a half hour. I stopped to get some coffee around three. That’s been keeping me going ever since; I guess it was pretty strong. It was just so sunny today you know? I wanted to wear the new dress I bought because it’s just so perfect for this weather. Do you think it looks good on me?” She asked

“Yeah, it does look good” He wasn’t going to say anything but that. Her ass truly did look good in the floral patterned sundress.  

“Good I thought you’d like it, I thought you’d like the yellow. I also headed over to the grocery store and got some fruit snacks. You can have some.”

He did.

“Yeah sure, what kind are they?”

“Oh just like the target brand.”

Herald hopped off the bed onto the carpet, it was also the same dull droning grey that was housed in the hallway. The grey leached around the sides of his feet into the white of his socks. He bent down and grabbed a pouch. He displayed all the rubbery snacks out and sorted them in his hand by color. 2 peach, 3 red, 2 orange, 1 yellow, 3 grape. Murry traversed over the abyss of the carpet thankfully making it back safe to the bed. He began to eat the grape fruit snacks first waiting to eat the yellow ones last.

“I really fucking hate the color of the walls!” Herald felt lonely.

He began rubbing the thick royal blue towel hung on the door. It held him. We dangerously started talking. My throat was on fire from the pace and fever of the conversation. She was sitting Indian style in front of me. Her hair was blonde but not perfect, it was tarnished with brown and sat below her shoulders. The face I was severely focused on. My voice ran coarse. The conversation that was setting my mind and throat on fire started to shift its focus. The conversation was still occurring but my focus was shifting to my body.

The fire was ripping down my esophagus and hit my stomach with the force of a punch. It raged still farther picking up anger with each foot of intestine. It’s objective becoming clearer.

My sweat pants were quite comfortable. There light grey with elastic around the ankles; it keeps the warmth in. The sweat pants weren’t the type used for a work out. The grey fleece was used for lounging. Cozy. They were tight but in-between the elastic band the pants became baggy. The bagginess started to exist ominously in the front of my mind.

I nervously traveled my legs upwards feeling the looseness of the fabric. When I came to my buttocks it felt empty, there was a space, an empty cloth sack. A balloon blown up and deflated multiple times. Then I was struck with a firecracker. The first blow. The scuffle started. I hunkered down bit my lip and got ready for a long battle. The skirmish reached its pinnacle faster than anyone was prepared for. I clenched and held tight

Uncontrollable onslaught. Out of my clenched butthole came an unrelenting stream, a fresh Cheese Wiz nozzle recently bought from a second hand shop on sale. It filled the sack like an experienced softserve handler at a dairy queen with the finesse of a sculptor.

There I sat downgraded to an infant try to play with the colors. 

Mary Heilmann Neo Noir 1998. Oil on Canvas, 75-1/8 x 60-1/4 inches.