chapter 4 -blur

"Mmm," a fuzzy silhouette hovered over Daisy placing a tray on to her bloated belly, "'Mornin' pretty lady. Am I ready for another feeding?"

Her eyes adjusted to Ash in a red blouse and a dark skirt, "No, silly, it's Monday." Ash stirred a glass on the nightstand before leaning down and pecking Daisy's forehead, "But I made you breakfast, and the fridge and pantry are packed with leftovers." A faint orange light filtered through the blinds highlighting her pancake breakfast feast; and she tore into the syrup soaked bacon.

"I know you have a deadline at the end of tomorrow, so don't pig out too much," she winked. "And fill me in on those other updates later. Love you, babe!"

"Mmm—Ash, wait," Daisy took another quick bite of bacon, "Um, this had been a real dream and everything—" No. She could afford to indulge a little longer, "—and I love you, too. Have a good day."

She laid back against the headboard, savoring bites of chewy fat atop her throne of mismatched pillows and comforters. Ash had put her entire soul into this weekend, but what had even happened? It was all a flurry ecstasy of emotion.

And how was it Monday already? Two days of pampering. Of stuffings, belly pats, and cuddles. Two. Straight. Days. From pies to crepes, to waffles light and fluffy. Even more proof she didn't deserve this woman.

Grabbing a morsel more than usual, she squeezed her tummy and sighed, "Might as well get some work done."

********

"Um, Daisy?" A message pinged on her laptop, her manager, "Why did you send over an article on the 'Butter and Eggs Festival'? We commissioned a book review. Looks like it was the wrong attachment."

"What are you talking about?" She replied back, slightly annoyed as she checked the email for the correct document. She spent all day on this, sidelining her guilty piggy pleasures writing another fluff piece for a dying industry.

Everything was there, correct file name, she even gave it a click open to make sure.

"Stacy, what are you...?" A spike of anxiety rocketed through her chest. What *was* this? She had no memory of writing a piece like this, but it was her style, her byline…

A two-thousand word essay on...butter and eggs? Stacy was being generous, it wasn't even about the festival. It was some diatribe on dish flavor profiles, some overly descriptive nonsense on 'the joy of a life with baked goods'. She had never seen this before, when did she churn this out?

"I'm so sorry, Stacy, this was a satire piece for another publication. Apologies, I'll have yours by deadline tomorrow."