Buridan's Ass

The first time I fainted was at Christmas Eve Mass. It was my first taste of hunger pains,

the ravenous monster moving from the depths of my belly —gnawing her way through the crimson sweater wrapped too tightly around my abdomen. Sickly sour NyQuil stained my lips blue; the Eucharist was not fit to grace my tongue. Heat slithered up to my neck, forcing me towards the marble stairs outside the chapel in the cool December air.

I reached for the metal railing, the temperature of the frozen bronze searing my skin. The feeling of my hand wrapped around it left as quickly as it came.

The street was stained with snow and the rock salt scratched my bare legs more than the thick wool of the skirt on my lower back.

At home, I stared at the Christmas tree, the lights blurring like spots in the corner of my vision. I slowly rested my eyelids and imagined the world encased in shadows once more. I felt my stomach shift and contract, bile sloshing inside, and knew the monster was insatiable.

Spring 2022