Jawline

I began this particular spiral similar to the way Marcel Proust had his “moment” after biting into a madeleine during tea. Except my sponge cake was a crusty, flaky, Portuguese roll I had doused in Ken’s Steakhouse honey mustard during a lapse in strength that was so sumptuous I wanted to cry; then I helped myself to another. As I digested the bread and dressing, the aftertaste of guilt would coat the inside of my mouth like saliva before vomit. You see, I had given into the three o’clock burps that would set off like S.O.S. telegrams from my stomach as I lay on the couch trying to muscle through another chapter of The Brothers Karamazov —…