Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Steamtray omelette sold in slices--dangerous, but quantifiable. Accountability is as important as actual nutritive value.

At my desk I tuck in. A blast of butter in my mouth. Straight-up fat. I think of it cooking, sizzling on the grill in the bubbling butter. When I ascend to heaven--an admittedly comic sight, because you'd need a thick wire on the crane--let grease-soaked cherubim herald me with trumpets made of salt.

I always assumed the sweet is the trigger, because fatties love candy, but it seems to be the snack. I want the sweet to follow the salty. The sweet unto itself, without the prefatory pretzels or chips, is indistinct. But after--like a cigarette after sex (not that I'd ever be allowed one)--the sweet is a revelation. It can be appreciated only in its relation to history.

Clock hands spinning.