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Fat Jackson is running the two blocks to the A & P, trying to make it before closing time -- his disgusting flesh heaving up and down with every ponderous step. It's mercifully dark early this evening; the ripples of lard up his back, thighs, arms are shielded by the night. Rounding the corner he sees that he is too late -- the iron gate is just now closing over the signs advertising Boar's Head, Minute Rice, Kellogg's, Land o' Lakes -- and nothing in the house for breakfast! The Food-4-Less on College Ave. is open all night, but it's too far to walk -- Melissa's got the car and won't be home til late. Jackson sighs and shakes his head in vexation, his jowls and his shoulders shimmying sympathetically as he plays their most recent argument over in his head. He turns and starts slowly home trying to figure out how he could have been in the right. -- He's still coming up with excuses hours later, lying in bed now, when he hears the garage door opening and the car pulling in. When you push the brake there is a moment of tension building as the car slows down -- then it stops and you feel a little shudder of release. Put it in park, turn the key -- the motor cuts off and there is a vanishing slice of silence before the garage door begins its noisy descent. Melissa is thinking about last night's argument too, she's hoping nothing is out of place at home; she likes Jackson and doen't want to be angry. |