Free #TripleX by Christine Zolendz, Angelisa Stone Page B

other; it was like coming home—home to graze.
    We ate for three hours.
    Leave your judgments at the door .
    The two skinny girls from outside stayed there just as long as us. Albeit, they did not eat the entire time they were there, but that’s their story. They sat at the table next to us and talked about country club gossip and who was doing whom the entire time.
    Incidentally, if I were one of them, I’d tell Tenelle’s husband that Tenelle and Natalia were grinding cooters and not playing tennis. But like I said, that’s their story. Country club gossip isn’t my forte, but don’t be surprised when Tenelle and Natalia make a cameo in my next lesbian erotic short story.
    Ang and I were just beginning our dessert portion of our feast (caramelized banana pudding, truffles, apple Danishes, and to DIE FOR éclairs) when we overheard one of the women tsk and say, “I know, sometimes I just forget to eat…”
    How was that even possible? That’s like forgetting to breathe. I leaned over the table, smashing my chest into a truffle. “Maybe it’s contagious. Let’s go lick her face. See what happens.”
    “You got creamy boobs,” Angelisa said, pointing at my truffle stained shirt.
    I tried wiping away the mess, both of us still listening to the conversation next to us. The woman who forgets to eat held up a fork with a tiny piece of pineapple on it, “Well, you are what you eat, and I’m super healthy.”
    “Wow,” Angelisa said loudly, rolling her eyes. “If that’s true then I need to eat a fothermucking skinny-assed super model.”
    There is no better cure for a midlife crisis than a road trip with your best friend and the laughter she brings you. And I’m not talking about just giggling with your friend. I’m talking about the convulsive hysterical laughter that makes you spill your drink all over the table, soda-burst from your nose and can’t catch your breath kind of laughter. It’s an emotional detox. It just has a way of stopping the current crisis dead in its tracks and cleanses the deteriorating soul—giving it a boost of verve and excitement.
    I wiped at my eyes, “Hey, let’s take some food for the road!”
    “Hell yeah,” Ang yelped.
    Like two large-sized thieves, we wrapped up napkins full of goodies and stuffed scrumptious booty into our bags, giggling like teenagers, while people pretended to not see Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum fill their totes with rolls, drumsticks, and BBQ ribs.
    On the way to the exit, we met our dreaded nemesis, those evil walk-through metal turnstiles. What the Hell was that about? Did this place really need to count the customers as they left? What did they think, that someone might stowaway in a bathroom stall for a night of Hog Heaven and heaping piles of potatoes and stuffing? Hmmm… not a bad idea.
    Without a second thought, I pushed at the greasy metal bar and tried to nudge my way through the spinning death trap only to find that I was mortifyingly wedged in and couldn’t move. Seriously, I was halfway through my turn, and the bars just freaking locked . My upper body jerked forward, but the lower part was stuck between the two slimy bars. Immediately, I could feel a nasty bruise spreading across my skin where the metal locked against me.
    I was stuck! My body exploded in cold sweats. It was so freaking embarrassing . I tugged and tugged. Nothing.
    I turned my head to Angelisa in the turnstile next to me who was even more trapped than I. She had one leg raised over the bar, and she was struggling on the metal, making her look like she was getting to know the bar in the most biblical sense. Actually, knowing her, she might have been. Anything for a good thrill. Go get ‘em Ang!
    Oh my God, maybe we will need the Jaws of Life! It had to be my pocket or something that kept me sandwiched between the two iron rods of Hell. The turnstile had to be stuck on my pocket. Who the frig puts turnstiles in All-You-Can-Eat buffets, anyway?
    Then we both hear