A man is towering over me, round and flushed pink, so large I cannot see where his sides end, his mouth hanging in a drooped semi-circle. It looks as if it has been open long enough to let the flies in, to let the dust settle. He asks me what I’m here for, but no answer comes to mind. He asks me if I’m going in, yet before I can reply, he steps aside to reveal what his body had been hiding. A door made of deep mahogany, with gold trimming and large brass knobs –- he grabs a handle, with his pustulous hands, and swings it open for me to enter.
Sweet, thick air swirls out, filling my nostrils, my senses tingling. Already my tongue is wet, salivating, hungry. So down the corridor I walk, the ground beneath my feet decked in warm purple velvet carpeting, gold tassel rails are strung along the walls. And soon enough, the hallway ends. My neck cranes upwards to see the top of the door which I face, and I enter yet again, heaving the thick door open.
And before I can blink, or even look around, I am met by a square faced woman. Her face so close to mine I can smell her putrid, sour breath, wafting out of her open mouth, which is set deep in her face. Her skin is spongy and flakey, hanging off her bones, like succulent meat cooked to perfection, juicy and supple, ready to be eaten. Her cheeks are rosy, all the time deepening in red. She seems to be blistering under the heat of her body metabolising the fat and carbs which surround her and fill the room.
I turn my head and take it all in. Expanses of treats, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, meticulously stacked on every surface. Saturated in sugar, replacing any flavor with overpowering sweet, treats sit unassuming but almost venomous in their places. Towers of cakes and custards, cupcakes, pastries, pasties and cream puffs. Mince pies, apple pies, pumpkin pies and key lime. A full carved turkey, towers of pancakes, sticky, oozing, glue like, syrup, glistening as it drips from the neat curves of the stack, onto the floor. The scent is almost cacophonous, too much to handle. Loud and bright and hot and hotter, the air settles in my pores, in my bones. And sitting under each confection, a plate made of gold. The tines of miniature forks which are not gilded but forged, piercing the taut skin of fish on a platter, flaky and moist under the encasing of charred scales. Not only are there oysters on her plate but their treasures are strung tight around the woman’s neck, and as if on purpose – made to match – pearls of juicy, white fat hang from the woman’s mouth and around her chin.
The woman reaches out a hand of thick, tacky, fingers, with gold and silver rings acting as a near tourniquet around her bulging appendages, and takes my own, now clammy, slender hand, in hers. The gluttony of the room is seeping out from under the door, slinking away in hopes of escape, with no window in sight to be opened, to allow it to crawl and descend from the claustrophobic room. The woman sits, squeezing her distended rump into the cathedra which rests behind her. She gestures for me to sit, but there is no other seat in sight.
“Join me sugar, come have a snack,” she says, her tone sickly and wet, “We’re just getting started on the meal!”