“But first, a snack,” Dorris announced to the empty apartment. Something about long, hot showers often made her thirsty. It didn’t make sense: shouldn’t she be absorbing moisture through her skin? The air she breathed, wasn’t that humid enough? She should be… well, it was a fact that she sometimes sweated in the shower. More so, if the slick and steamy environment lent itself to an erotic escapade. That was true.
She gripped a plastic bottle of orange juice from the fridge and began to slug from it, then the little lump in her butt reminded her she wasn’t alone. Well, functionally alone, she thought, but nonetheless she capped the orange juice and drew a modest glass of water from the sink. Water was better for her. Did she drink enough water? She should drink more water. Maybe she shouldn’t make a late-night snack after all, she mused, leaning back against the sink to sip at her glass. Oprah didn’t eat anything after nine, if she recalled correctly. And Dorris didn’t have acid reflux, but she’d read somewhere that going to bed with a full stomach caused acid reflux. She rocked gently, bouncing her butt against the edge of the sink, trying to talk herself out of a snack. And then there was that article that said one hundred percent of people surveyed said that they felt their appetite sufficiently satisfied when they had a full glass of water before bed instead of making a snack. She rocked and rocked and watched the clear liquid slosh in her little glass.
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