I stroll down the sweets aisle of my neighborhood CVS like it’s my own private Louvre:
Good & Plenty’s ovoid licorice pastels, arresting in vivid pink and gleaming white; Starburst’s rainbow dazzle, waxen and yielding; Hostess Son Balls, with their tender swells of fluorescent blush coconut and marshmallow sponge enveloping a vague notion of chocolate cake.
Yes, they’re made by people in lab coats—all those dyes and tinctures, that false flavoring, this faux food—and yes, Jujubes rip out my fillings. But reason hath no place in the aisle of unearthly delights. Just the easy joy of becoming a girl again, as I muscle through that fierce cinnamon of the 15 Hot Tamales jammed in my mouth, alive with fleeting glee.
