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“What do you think of the kombucha?“ he asks. It tastes like sadness. I don’t tell him this, of course. Mostly because my mouth is still full and both unable and unwilling to swallow. Instead, I draw a deep breath through my nose, telling myself that on the count of three, I’ll force it down. One… Two… I’m too late. My gag reflex overpowers my sheer will. Instead of swallowing, I spray. Like a Saturday-morning cartoon. All over the picnic blanket.” — Kate Robb
What do you think of the kombucha?“ he asks.
It tastes like sadness.
I don’t tell him this, of course. Mostly because my mouth is still full and both unable and unwilling to swallow.
Instead, I draw a deep breath through my nose, telling myself that on the count of three, I’ll force it down.
One…
Two…
I’m too late.
My gag reflex overpowers my sheer will. Instead of swallowing, I spray. Like a Saturday-morning cartoon. All over the picnic blanket.