KIKI FREEM realized she was developing claustrophobia in Manhattan and moved to the open hills of Georgia to begin writing fiction in earnest. In between short stories,  she works as a freelance copywriter (web site: www.zagstudios.com).

                                                          these appetites


These appetites are eating me alive.

The oysters were luscious and meaty, but only six. How is the soup today? Roasted pepper and chicken? Okay that sounds good. Thank you.

"Would you like another beer with that, ma’am?"

"No, thanks; I’m good."

But of course, I would. I really would. Another rich, malty Doppelbock would be fabulous. But I have a long drive home from work. Besides, what I really want is  FOOD--no, sustenance. I want satisfaction. Everything on the menu shouts at me.

CALAMARI. SEARED SCALLOPS. SMOKED SALMON. SAUTÉED SPINACH. I want it all, but exercise the public control of a woman eating alone, reading and smoking in a corner.

On the way home I pull off the interstate for something quick and cheap.

The taco is good but not warm. I need something warm. Something to fill that space.

On the other side of the highway is the glowing light of a Krystal. I hate Krystal, but maybe one of those warm little cheeseburgers would do the trick. Yeah.

"Two Cheese Krystals--no make that one cheese Krystal and a Krystal Chick."

"Would you like some fries or a drink with that ma'am?"

Hmmm. Cold drink, no. But french fries? Oh, hot steamy soft salty fries. But no, I shouldn't; I've had so much already. The speaker voice is waiting.

"No, that's all, thanks"

"Drive through, please."

The chicken sandwich is soft and steamy and I crunch into a fried corner and get a slivery pickle with it. It is good. But guilt over the incredibly greasy fried-ness of it makes me spit it into a napkin as I steer onto the entrance ramp.

Such furtive greedy eating. What is the matter with me? I'm sure there's something--if I could just find it--to really nourish that barren needy corner in there.

I drive with the empty bags next to me. What could be making me eat like this? Does everyone feel this way at some time or another? Nothing horrible happened at work, and life is coasting along just fine. Just fine.

Where are the cigarettes? I inhale deeply, thinking, searching.

These appetites are eating me alive.

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© 2002 Kiki Freem