A Thousand Words: Hot Dog edition


She sits down at the table next to me and I have to shift to make room for her legs. Hers are much longer than mine, to the point where most people give us funny looks when I introduce her as “my little sister” or her me as “her big brother.” She looms well over a foot higher than me and has ever since she was twelve years old, but when she sits we’re even height. It’s a strange phenomenon that has lead friends and family to test my proportions using the Vitruvian Man test. Strangely I always pass.

The table is small and round. There are four chairs around it even though there’s barely enough room under it for our two sets of legs. The wire frame of the table is cheap and flimsy, but the top is polished clean marble. Everything here is like that, crass and mass produced and then given a shiny outer layer and the appearance of validity.

She takes a sip out of her Pepsi and lays it in the middle of the table. I motion toward it and she nods. I take a sip and replace it again. The cup is marked as a small, but it’s the same size as the largest cup at all of the diners back home.

She lays down her prize and smiles wickedly, her cheeks pushing up on either side. She smiles as though she’s doing something wrong and getting away with it, like a child stealing a candy bar or a nun indulging in chocolate.

Her prize is a long phallic hot dog, over a foot and a half in length. Rather than a bun, it had been coated it cheese and then deep fried until the cheese formed a think crust around it. It smelled like mozzarella and grease, and I realize I’d been smelling it for quite some time without being totally aware of what it was.

I put down what I’m reading and gaze at it for a moment before turning to her. “What is that?” I ask.

That,” she smiles again, “Is a Deep-Fried Cheese Dog.” She gives me a double thumbs-up, as though her ear-to-ear grin wasn’t enough to portray how excited she was. Her nails are bright white and the heart-charms that adorn the bracelet on her arm jangle as she moves. “Do you want one?”

I smirk, roll my eyes, then turn back to my paper. “No.”

She shrugs, then picks up the Deep-Fried Cheese Dog. It wobbles and threatens to crack in two before she steadies it and takes the first few bites.

I chuckle.

(Story and Photo Copyright 2012 Matthew LeDrew)

Never Look Back
Matthew LeDrew


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