Corner

I ate an entire terrycloth bath towel. Are you going to jump and raise your hand in the air and say, Oh me too! Me too!? I worried I would gain weight. So I started pulling it out by the last dangling corner in my throat. I gagged around every millimeter and my hands were covered in drool and tear drops. You caught me heaving with two inches of towel hanging out of my mouth and you shook your head. Got your boyfriend to hold my shoulders back. You got a good grip. The towel was orange and full sized. Not a beach towel, mind you, but big enough to wrap and tuck and be covered after a warm bath. It was dry when I ate it but wet coming out. Hot bile rose with each tug. My mouth was a snail shell. You were good, better then I thought you would be. You remained concentrated. Quiet. Once you got it going you pulled hard and half the towel came out in one terrible yank. I screamed through my nose. Why did I eat this towel? I thought. And, Thank God for my mother. There was still a good bit in my stomach. I could feel it coiled in acid like a hairy snake. The urge to vomit was what I imagine the urge to push in childbirth would be. But the puke wouldn’t come out because it got soaked up as it rose and blocked. The true definition of dry heave—the quicker picker-upper. You pulled more out but left the last bit lodged and left the room. You must have known what would happen when the last corner, the one with the tag, was finally out.