After wrapping up a low-key dinner with my roommates last night, Beth appeared listless. Finally, after a few moments, she made her announcement.

“I want dessert.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Know what? I really do, too. What do you want?”

“Dessert. I really don’t care what. I don’t know what. Just dessert.”

“Yeah, that actually sounds about right for me too.”

Everything sounded appealing. Cookies. A candy bar. Ice cream. Cake. There was an uncontrollable need for something sweet and at least slightly decadent.

We set off to see where the craving would take us. As it turned out, Barnes & Noble to pick up takeaway slices of Cheesecake Factory cheesecake.

Now, it’s important to explain that Vermont has no Cheesecake Factory. Since leaving Washington, I’ve only experienced the joy of a Luau Salad/dessert combo thrice, and always in the midst of some journey (Las Vegas, Boston, Baltimore). I do, however, have this local B&N Starbucks, which sells slices of the goodness — I’d simply never partaken before.

Until last night, when the need for sweet was so great that I decided the only cure was a slice of Caramel Latte cheesecake. Beth also indulged.

It. Was. Glorious.  As we each plunged our forks into the caramel-laced brilliance, we pledged to take advantage of this little bit of heaven more often.

Twenty minutes later:

“I think I’m going to be sick.” If I sat perfectly still, the urge to die didn’t feel quite so bad.

“How do we eat meals and cheesecake at the restaurant?”  Beth curled up in the fetal position on the other couch.

“We don’t. We take things home.”

“Oh yeah.”

A moment passed.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“I haven’t felt this strung out on sugar since I was a little kid.”

“I’m never eating cheesecake again. Ever. I’m never even eating sugar again. Ever.”

This morning, I awoke and realized I was in the midst of sugar crash. Body drained. Dehydrated. Downright gross.

Death to cheesecake.

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