from
OREOS
Alfredo Lafarga

From our kitchen-slash-dining room, I could see her sit down on the sofa and cross her legs. Her old blue nightshirt rode up, exposing her stark, white thighs, crinkled with cellulite. “You know,” I said in her wake, “this diet could do you some good.”

I watched as she stared at the television and ripped the package open, ignoring me. Oreos were Alicia’s preferred comfort food. She ate them in direct proportion to her emotional needs. Bad day at work? Eight Oreos. Bad drive home? Another six. Bad night with husband? Half a package. She took a cookie out and dunked it in the glass of milk on the coffee table, then popped it in her mouth. Gross. I couldn’t stand to see the black gunk Oreos became in a person’s mouth, smeared on the teeth like crap. As a kid, I’d eaten Nilla Wafers and Chips Ahoy! cookies, leaving Oreos for the disgusting open-mouth eaters.

“Are you going to say anything?” I asked. Alicia’s jaws worked slowly. She grabbed another cookie from the package and expertly twisted the two sides apart, the cream filling perfectly intact on the cookie in her left hand. She bared her teeth and scraped the cream filling off in two passes. The cookies were dunked in the milk and eaten in one swallow.

“Well, I guess you’ll be busy the rest of the night,” I said and stood up from the chair. Before I could take a step, something flew past my face an inch from my nose and exploded on the kitchen wall. The point of impact was marked by chocolate brown cookie crumbs, the Oreo in pieces at my feet.

I turned and watched as she surgically twisted another Oreo apart, this time licking the cream filling off with her tongue.