Her pants were straining, the way a man strains to stay on the edge of a cliff while staring death in the face, but It did not stop her from waddling, the way a penguin fresh from the feeding frenzy, into her dining room.  
         She had wanted nothing more than this moment, and in fact, she wanted it all through dinner. The wait had her salivating, just like Pavlov's dog, and this moment was her bell.  Her eyes were as wide as child's who had just seen his Christmas loot.  There it was in front of her, luring her, like a prostitute lures a business man. She was being filled with promises of satisfaction and euphoria. 
       As she sat down, the chair legs arched, like a hunter's bow before the fatal shot. The moment was hers. Set down in front of her was her holy grail free of imperfections, as if it had been airbrushed like supermodels in a magazine.
  She dipped her fork in, like a surgeon making the first incision and brought the piece to her lips.  The soft aroma was intoxicating. The way whiskey is to a bum.  
       As fast as the first piece was swallowed, so was every last crumb.
   She arched back in victory, sending the button of her pants across the room faster than a champagne cork on New Year's eve. But it didn't matter now. She had enjoyed it the only way she knew how. Like a fat kid enjoys cake.