A Fat Lady Near College Street

Her water bottle swung close to her waist, magnifying light on her slightly open thermal pouch, the silver lining as thick as the crosshatched steak inside. Her lax, turkey body shook with each desperate step, but a maple-leaf shaped monocle seemed eternally snug in her scarred eye socket. Her bare breasts hug lazy and widely as Yak’s ears, assuring her nipples their domineering perimeter, as if to compensate for her stiff, plump spine. Feta and barbecue sauce trickled down from one of her orifices, leaving passerbys to be swift and careful with their Birkenstocked soles. Pus ballooned from the tip of her tongue and slowly drooled through the greasepaint Canadian flag on her belly, onto the pavement, and into the sewer. Her temples, pale and malnourished, showed no signs of fighting back against gravity.