PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Harold sat in the driver’s seat and slammed the door. The doctor’s visit was more than disappointing. Doc called the pharmacy so that numerous prescriptions would be filled and waiting when he got there.
He looked down at the pile of trash on the car’s floorboards and then his expansive gut.
“You are what you eat,” he muttered. “Bloody blood sugar.”
He wanted to cry but instead he put the key in the ignition and started his car.
“This won’t beat me. I won’t die a fat slob choking down a bunch of pills. I must join a gym immediately.”
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