I hate them. You have to understand this, to understand me. It’s not what I wanted to do with my life, never what I planned. But there has to be someone, somewhere, who would. If you can think of it, someone else can do it. Or something like that. I don’t like thinking I’m a bad person. Because, really, I’m not.

It’s the children who are bad. They’re always finding me, coming to my house, smelling food. Visiting the kind old fat lady down the road.

(I’ve never had a thyroid problem: I just like food. Too much, often. But I diet.)

And, sometimes, they give me that look. The one that goes through innocence and out the other side. Sometimes, they’re pure.

And I eat them. To save them from losing that, from losing everything; from the death of faith and trust, from the loss of innocence and wonders.

And every time I eat them, my new/next/better diet fails. They’re rich and fatty and sugar and spices and even the snails and snakes are juicy and tart on the tongue. And it’s too hard to stop with just one.