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Ribon

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There is a chocolate eclair that is flirting from across the shop.
It is drizzled in a glossy sauce and polished in glaze.
Its body is scrumptiously round.
It sits on a bright yellow plate, beckoning for me to claim it.
“Eat me,” it says.

Nearby, is a sandwich.
Its innards cradled by two hearty chunks of baguette.
Mozzarella and tomatoes saturated in a tangy oil concoction.
Cut lengthwise, it is the ideal way to devour: the corner the perfect place to begin a bite.
Crunch, crunch.

Clunking inside a wicker basket is soda.
Fizzy and refreshing and so sugary sweet.
Waiting to be shaken, aroused.
So it can erupt into a bubbly orange-cream firework.
It will be the final taste to the meal, urging down the throat chewed up eclair and mashed sandwich.

It will lace the throat with a pigmented orange flavor, line the esophagus with a flavorful silk.
It will glide down and protect the lining of the stomach, restrain the acids from attacking the delicate organs.
It will serve as a skin, an impenetrable syrupy skin.

And when the eclair and the sandwich will be coaxed back from the stomach through the esophagus up the throat,
They will be cocooned in celebratory coral saliva.
Bound by a bright orange ribbon.




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