You are walking through Commons.
It is a Francophone themed dinner,
and a certain je ne sais quoi is in the
air. You make eye contact with –or rather he

makes eye contact with you– a slice of coco-
nut pie placed delicately by the dessert table.

“Salut tout le monde,” you whisper
(Editor’s note: that means “Well hello
there” for all you non-French speakers
and also to French speakers, apologies
for the Google Translate).
You decide you want to take him home

with you, home to your Commons ta-
ble. Once you both are settled,

you decide to split a bottle
of Cheerwine to set the
mood. (We Googled it,
Cheerwine is also an
aphrodisiac).
Once you get

talking, you re-
alize just how

dense he is, in
every sense of
the word. He
can barely

hold a con-
versation.

L u c k i l y,

that is ex-
actly what

you are
looking for
on a night

like to-
night. His

thiccness hits a certain
spot deep in your abdomen, sating

a hunger you didn’t know you had be-
fore grasping his girth in your hands. No

strings attached, just a little fun.

Once you really dig in, you are intro-
duced to how sweet he is. Every inch

is full and rich and sugary. With every
moment you spend together, you wish
you had another moment more. But
sure enough, you soon reach the end, or
should I say crust, of your time together.
A tear rolls down your cheek onto your
off-white plastic Commons plate. You
left said plate spotless–not a morsel went
unexplored by your tongue.

You took his pleasure for your-
self, leaving nothing to be en-
joyed by the food slurry

that awaits discarded food
at the end of the plate

conveyor belt. Stand-
ing there, watch-
ing the last

vestige of
y o u r
s w e e t
t r e a t
t r y s t
trundle
a l o n g
o n
g r e a s y
b l u e
slats, you

sigh. Yet another re-
minder of the ephemerality of

life. “Maybe I’ll see you next year,” you
whisper to no one, or maybe everyone,
but the Commons nightlife drowns out
any hope of being heard.