I pack a lunch for the little one with a quesadilla that I had to summons every inch of my will power not to eat as I was making it. The dripping cheese is almost unbearable torture. How could something be so good. But I am strong. I remove it from the iron skillet, cut it up, and pack it in a container for her lunch that day.
Still thinking about it, I go upstairs and get dressed as I try not to think about the cheese, seeping out, as it heads to my mouth. . . . oil drop on my shirt on the way. Who cares.
But instead it goes into the lunch.
And then, get this: it comes back at the end of the day uneaten. Untouched, the cheese now fully married to the tortilla and hardened.
It is painful to see this and my jaw dropped. I pull it out of the container and sit there, vacillating between cheating on my diet to lose these ornery extra pounds that are ruining my life vs. being in a moment of full cheese quesadilla satisfaction, even if it is not melty like before, I’ll take it.
Pain. Reasoning with myself that tomorrow I will start, again, but I know tomorrow never comes.
No.
I toss it into the trash and walk out of the kitchen completely dissatisfied.
—Sketch
letters from sketch 