Her mouth gaped as she shoved the spongey bread into her mouth. Sugary cream dripped down the sides of her moist lips and, like a running stream, trickled down to her cleavage. I watched her indulge in mouthful after mouthful of this concoction composed of no more than butter, sugar, and flour, which she devoured as if it was her first meal in years. She patted her forehead with a paper napkin, for it had begun to gather beads of shimmering sweat. The tablecloth was a pastel pink, set against the backdrop of pale yellow and sky blue walls, and I could not help but feel that this pastry shop was designed to resemble that of an infant's bedroom. A lighting fixture hung from the ceiling like an upside-down lollipop, illuminating the center of the room, while the four corners depended on the harsh radiance of neon signs displaying the custard flavors of the week: german chocolate, butterscotch, and praline. The pallid woman had been deprived of the sun for some time, perhaps due to hours spent at home watching the home shopping network and ordering a dozen miniature bear figurines. She sat in the far left corner of the eatery, beneath a painting of what the store had looked like 25 years ago on the other side of town. Her chest heaved every time she pushed a palm-full of dessert into her mouth. Her fingers, like a row of 5 vienna sausages, cupped her mouth in order to keep mush from spewing out. While she attempted to chew her food with a full maw, her eyes closed and her head tilted back as she relished in this moment of elation. I noticed a lump travel south in her throat into the deep abyss of her stomach, where so many pounds of previous meals lay. Her glistening bosom extended outwards as she took a deep breath in preparation of the next bite.
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