Sari and Paige

Sari and Paige were on gruesome weekday diets. Nothing for breakfast (easy), cigarettes and coffees at 2pm (lunch break), raisin nut bars at 4:30pm (after some serious writing), olive oily, fruit salads for dinner (scarf). One Saturday night, early in the morning, they sat side by side on Paige's couch witnessing the very worst of infomercials and clenching their tummy fat with even fatter fingers.
"I once ate an entire pizza - in bed - only to reach - eyes closed - for the last slice - forty minutes into a dream. And I knew what I was doing. Did I ever tell you that? I am nasty," Sari said.
"When I have sex with my legs up, I totally gross myself out," Paige offered.

They knew exactly where the closest White Castle was. They were dressed up, having polished off their night's romp at a friend's birthday party, club-style. They click-clacked their heels all the way down Atlantic, past chichi bridal shops and African crafts stores, past sweaty men in their wife beaters, sitting on their short steps, liking their asses in Arabic.
The castle's white and pointy glow sprayed out like an oriental fan as they approached the drive-thru window, slowly, as if they had just been a couple of passers-by.
"One sack."
"Yeah, me too, one sack."
They ordered and the kid behind the window slid their meat under the steel. Then they walked to the curb and sat down like a couple of exhausted hookers, hot grease from the bags' bottoms shining their knees. Their fatty fingers punctured marshmallow buns. Pickles slipped. Cheese squished. Mustard dripped. Mouths never closing, they breathed in the meatiness and did not look at each other once.