Curdling

I asked my guts if we making dairy today.

It was churning at about a hundred turns per minute, carefully curdling stomach acids and morning coffee. For a few seconds, the formed lumps hung suspended in my wind pipe then slowly rose to my throat, preparing to choke me.

My insides continued to heave.

Unsettled and frustrated--- it vented anger on a tablespoon of coffee, sugar and cream---the unsuspecting contents of a venti tumbler I was downing with neither mercy nor remorse.

Gulp after scalding gulp, my stomach grumbled its protests; churning until the curd turned thick and heavy. While I, sitting rod-straight in the intimidating conference room, nodded and feigned a smile.

The lumps became hands that balled into fists.

Pelted with punches, pain rendered me deaf to sugar-coated speeches. I could no longer listen.

Convulsing in spasm, I bolted out of the room to spew----my violent reactions; my swallowed protests; my muffled questions---all washed down by this morning's coffee.

My stomach exacted vengeance on me for being so damn chicken.