Ice Cream

The soft, inner tube fastened around his waist like a hugging, slumbering snake, and despite the bone-aching, dizzying moments of fasting, and though the cadre of laps around his oak-lined neighborhood stacked up in the win column like the pack of rice cakes his wife placed in the pantry for his late evening cravings, there it lay--the ubiquitous handles of flubber staring at him in the mirror.  A bucket of sweat eked out of him after his sunset meander of pins-in-the-knees jogging, and there the master called from its frozen abode.  It was dark chocolate and cherry, and wouldn't it satisfy the tongue, the stomach, and yes, the soul? 

After indulgence and having no semblance of remorse, his faithful bride broke out the chocolate chip cookie dough.  More.  Even then, the appetite was wont for satiation, as the chocolate pie in the fridge cried out for consumption.  This too, was a work of lust, and it was truly too much, but the overload of the sugary master won the battle, beating him into submission, and it was so good. 

Besides, he thought, I can always run some more tomorrow.