“She looks like a zombie.” Son Two and I are at a bookstore large enough to merit its own bobsled team. Paula Deen is gazing at us with a gleam in her eye and a glazed-tooth grin. It may come from a butter-induced stupor, but I can’t help but think she’s sizing up our brains to see how many deep dish pies she could get out of the pair of us.
“She’s just posing for the camera,” I said, shivering and checking over my shoulder for random undead figures lurking in the nonfiction aisle.
“It looks like she’s staring at me.” He shifted on one leg to lean behind me. The creature’s eyes seemed to follow him. A trick of light on the glossy cover made her appear to drool. If she licked her lips, I was going to peel out past the half-price calendars like a Nascar driver on the last left turn.
“Let’s go to the coffee shop,” I whispered, backing away from the bookshelf. We’ll get something with caffeine to keep us alert.”
“Mom. If I got any more alert I’d be an exclamation point.” Son Two is as tall as an industrial refrigerator, but only as wide as an icicle in the freezer compartment. He can take in food all day, but somehow the shelves stay empty.
“Back up slowly and don’t make eye contact. She’ll try to lure you in with homemade doughnuts and full fat cream cheese.” But it was like I was talking to Angel Food. Son Two was gone and there was nothing but air.
I tried to run, but out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a cover picture of made-from-scratch banana pudding that would make my granny ask for more.
Dinner that night was especially tasty, finished off with a delicious dessert.
Zombies may want brain food, but banana pudding is food for the soul.