It's 10:40 p.m., and I hear the distant rustling of candy wrappers. "Bloody Peeps," Ed mutters quietly, giving in to their pillowy softness and sandy sugared coating.
I enter the room.
"Did you just say what I though you did?"
"Yes", he answers, his voice muffled by marshmallow.
"How many are left in the row?"
"Give them to me."
I stare at them. They stare back. Eat me, they whisper.
That's it. The Peeps are going in the garbage. In the quiet of the night, my blood sugar racing, I can almost hear their muffled cries for help, clamoring for air under the refuse.