She wets her finger in anticipation

Just the tip. Lowers it gently onto the silver foil. Careful not to spill. Or trip. That happened once. She won’t let it happen again. 

She moves her finger slowly across the foil, taking up every last piece of residue. Mustn’t waste it. Too precious. Not that she can’t get more quite easily. But right now, right now, it is too precious and most necessary. 

She lifts her finger carefully from the foil – steady now – carrying its cargo. Then slides it slowly across her teeth. They tingle and glitch. She closes her eyes, waiting for the hit. 

These slivers, like an exquisitely minute desert after the main course, are most delicious. She almost savours them more, these last morsels. Salvaged, specially. Rescued from oblivion. That buzz, there it is, she can feel it coming. 

She starts to fold, in half, and then half again, the foiled packet in front of her. Then screws it up tight and throws it in the bin. She can get some more tomorrow. 

They have an offer on at the moment for the 85% chocolate. Luckily no one else in the family likes it quite so strong. So bitter.


JP Seabright likes making stuff up and writing it down. Sometimes people even publish it. Info at https://jpseabright.wordpress.com/ and Twitter @errormessage.

Categories: Fiction

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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