Blood Sugar by Meg Pokrass (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) I miss the Bob who would admit he loves fudge sundaes. Yesterday, mom said, “where’s your bliss?” “Hiding under my lumps of cellulite,” I said. “Excuses,” she lobbed back. She’s had her eyes lifted so high since her surgery she looks feline. Life feels like being stuck in a bus next to a skinny bitch—the kind that keeps blinking. These are the “love replacements” I imagine swirling inside my mouth: pizza with everything, meatball sandwiches from Ernesto's, triple cream Brie from Safeway. Usually, I walk in the park right before dinner, to improve my outlook. I try and ignore the puppies getting training treats, their owners cooing, Goooouuuud Girrrrl. Yesterday I snapped— bought a corn dog. I licked it to make it last—so slow the sun went down and I didn’t notice it was night. I don’t think Bob’s home, he never is now, but I could call from a blocked number and check. He’s lost so much weight; he’s sprinting to the front of the meetings for achievement buttons, thanking God and whole grains for saving his life. The women always giggle, though he says the same shtick every time. “It’s about shooting high,” mom said. She’s planning her next vacation involving dolphins, her current obsession. She wants— well, it’s her “life wish”—to ride one, and last time, she sprained her ankle just walking to the dolphin riding ticket area, tripping on a toddler. “I have choice,” Bob’s new T-shirt says. Yup. All I have to do is choose water over cookies, celery sticks over pancakes. Cortisol has elevated my blood sugar levels, which may be why I dream about men, fat ones and thin ones, with delicious smells, yeasty as fresh dough. The Ernesto’s delivery man comes wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops ‘cause it’s still summer. He says “we count on you as much as you count on us,” instead of “so, what’s up with you?” I've started tipping a dollar less, and next time he comes, I’m going to let him take it from my hand.
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