Craving Fries

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with french fries. I mean, obsessed. And that’s not exactly a good thing when you’re a model. I tiptoe out of the house each morning at 9:34 on Saturday nights to go to the French café across the street, harbored in-between a gritty bar infested with beer-bellied drunks I ignore dutifully and a florist. Since they’re not family friends, I doubt they’ll ever tell my mother about my escapades there.

I’m Ophelia McCallister, a seventeen year old cosmetology student who practices modeling in her spare time. I have striking good looks, which isn’t immodest; for I’m a model and should be aware of my physicality. My skin’s a pale peach color that stretches over my torso and highlights my crystalline blue eyes and perfect complexion. I have golden red hair with enticing curls that always prompt guys to use “So, are those curls natural?” as a pick-up line on me. Of course I shoot down anyone who approaches me with that tired line. Mm, this description may sound glorified, but I assure you, I really am that lovely in appearance.

I sidle into a blue leather booth, which encompasses me in all of its slick, plush glory and makes for a comfortable setting so late in the day. The window facing the street is streaked in dirt and grease, but I could care less. I always pick up my menu to review the selections, even though I know I’ll order the usual; french fries, one order, with mayonnaise and ketchup. Tonight, however, I’m feeling a little hungrier than usual. I did work out for like, 3 hours. An extra treat couldn’t hurt, and this is only a weekly indulgence. I scanned the menu and decided upon poutine. I didn’t know what it was, but it sounded light and palatable.

“Miss? Are you ready to order?” asked the male waiter who worked here on weekends. His name was John, but I never referred to him as it.
“Yes, I’ll have one small order of french fries with a side of ketchup and mayonnaise…and I’d like to try poutine, too.” I declared.
“Ah, good choice.” He grinned, and took my menu. I smiled and observed the other diners. Elderly couples and boring middle aged professor-types. No one worth impressing. I decided to go to the bathroom to check myself out anyway.

I walked into the small room with the ivory tiles on the walls that matched the floor. The light hung over my face in an unusual manner and I readjusted my sweater. Quickly, I hiked it up and noticed red marks on my hips. Stretch marks?! I was horrified. Maybe my weekend indulgences were taking their toll. No, I thought. Couldn’t be. I left promptly and went to go wait for my meal.

The fries arrived, and next to them, an alien looking dish of what appeared to be more fries, just covered in something saucy and brown with white curds all over it. I dug into it. It was simply amazing. I finished my fries, scraping the gravy from the poutine, and called my waiter over.

“I’d like another order of poutine, please,” I asked desperately.
“Certainly,” he said. Within minutes, another order appeared on my plate. I finished it just as quickly as my other servings, and dabbed my mouth with my napkin gracefully. Alright, enough of that.

“Check, please?” I called. I paid and walked home, uncomfortably full. Maybe I should’ve mentioned one thing earlier. I’m a plus size model. And this was only my first stop tonight.