The cigarette smoke awakened the tequila in her belly, and she tried to hold it down, tried to persuade it to relax, but it wouldn’t listen. She jumped to her feet, tripped over herself, fell face-first to the carpet. The room was a merry-go-round then. Warm bile exploded from her throat and puddled to the carpet, coating her teeth and lips. Then more came.

The smell... Daddy’s calling her. She heard him clear as day this time, no question. Labored breathing. Wet noises like someone eating a lollipop.

Lola. Daddy’s waiting for you.

“No. S-stop...”

More vomit, choking her, oozing from her nostrils, bringing water to her eyes. She tried to stand again, fell back to her hands and knees, crawled down the hallway, toward the bathroom. Warm chunky liquid squashed beneath her hands, between her fingers, under her nails. It soaked into the knees of her sweatpants.

My sweet baby girl. Daddy’s hungry.

“F-fuck you...”

When she was nearly to the bathroom, she turned her head and peered down the dark hallway. She couldn’t help but picture the flickering colors of a television flashing against the mound-over-mound of hairy, glistening flesh piled on the sagging bed.

She collapsed to her stomach and wept, cried so hard that each sob was like a punch to the stomach. Her breaths came in rapid rhythm, a wail between each one. She couldn’t lift her head from the carpet, so she dragged it forward, pushing with her knees, the carpet fibers burning her face.

But she allowed herself these binges…every few months. To get her head straight…to face all of he pain, the memories.

In the morning, she would release her feelings on the streets. On the men that felt they ran shit, felt they could treat women like sex toys.

And she would do everything in her power not to puke all over her partner the second she laid eyes on the fat fuck.

FIRST DAY

The line stretched out the door. Round bodies shifted and bounced as they waited for their turn, watching the people within the restaurant eating. The house was packed; the cooks could barely keep up with how fast these people were eating. Puffy hands groped for eggrolls, fried wontons, crispy chicken wings. Thick fingers gripped serving spoons and piled on the General Tso’s chicken, the pork lo mein, the beef and broccoli, all covered with thick brown sauce. Noodles dangled from the edge of plates.

Those within the restaurant sat at circular tables, none speaking, their language that of smacking, swallowing, and heavy breathing. Gargantuan men and women, sitting in small red chairs with their legs spread wide so they could fit, sipping soda between forkfuls of slop. Silverware scraped against teeth, chair legs screeched against the floor as the eaters stood to pile more food onto their plates.

Juan slid a damp towel over the tabletop, stacking used plates in his bus cart. The people hadn’t been happy about being asked to leave, but with the line at the door, Mr. Chan placed a time limit. And the little spit-fire Chinaman didn’t hold back. When the family of hogs tried to refuse, he laid into them, threatening to blacklist them, kick them out for good. That got the chubby bastards moving.