Flubaerm

“G’morning, hon, you want a Christmas cookie?” It bugs the shit out of me, the way Val calls me ‘hon’ when she knows full well that I’m a doctor--and not just a doctor, but one of her bosses, too. It doesn’t help that she’s got five or ten years on me: I probably seem like a little brother, at best. I used to correct her, when I started here in the summer, but there are only so many times you can insist someone call you ‘doctor’ without sounding like an asshole. Maybe I am an asshole, if it matters this much to me. I don’t think so, but maybe. Val toddled into the kitchenette like she always does, and it amazes me that she doesn’t lose her balance and tip over. She’s not so big on the bottom, but the higher you up you go, the fatter she gets, and it all tops off in surreally large breasts and Popeye-sized arms, but with fat instead of muscle. That day she was wearing a purple cardigan struggling mightily to keep all that flesh in check, but it was thin and pilling and hardly up to

You can’t wait. You tear into the package the moment it arrives. Your knees weaken in anticipation, hands shaking, your wispy body a blur as you carry it up the stairs, unable to rein in your smile. You slide the bolt shut on the bathroom door behind you, staring in silence. Alone at last, with heaven waiting at your fingertips. It came in a flowery tin. You peel off the tape, then open the lid. Ten little cakes look up at your greedy, glimmering eyes, pink and white, iced top to bottom, like little French fancies. All marked with the same two words, in radiant black. ‘Eat Me’ You lick your lips. You spy a tiny silvery bottle, rattling in between. You check the label. ‘Drink Me’ Carefully, you slip it to the corner, safe for later. Your mind is fixed on the main event. The instructions lie folded at the bottom of the tin, but you already know them off by heart – long nights reading, re-reading the product description on the dark corners of the web, touching yourself to a