"One more slice before bed."

That was what I told myself. I didn't believe the government had done the right thing by outlawing it. I mean, sure it was hypnotic, and alien, but so was wine! George had eaten himself silly on the yellow stuff, and got run over by a train: but it didn’t affect me like that! The only negative experience I’d had from it was when I accidentally ate cheesecake and killed my old grandma.

But what I didn’t count on was the taste. Oh, the lusciousness! The texture! It lulled me into a trance, and before I knew it I had consumed all that which I had hidden from the Hallakon. I found myself, stumbling wearily down an alley, holding onto the wall with my tentacles. I knew the cheesedealers would be down here, going about their cagey jobs in the light. My mouth drooled as I caught sight of one, dressed all in white.

I approached him, teeth grinding the familiar litany. Some part of my mind wondered vaguely why he only had two arms. He saw me, and gave a shout, and suddenly I was surrounded by half-a-dozen white-clad figures. The urge was reaching its tipping point. I held all my limbs out, pleading with them, throwing my rocks at their feet; I shouted, “PLEASE! PLEASE! I JUST WANT CHEESE!”

Drained of strength, I collapsed, burying two of them under my dark body. My eyes were weak due to exposure to light, and I wondered why they were all pointing fuzzy, oblong shapes at me. Light and thunder burst from them, and pain erupted in my body. Terrible, terrible pain, luminous purple blood, and a splitting headache. Still nothing compared with the urge. I croaked out a final word before I drifted off.

“Cheeeeeeeeesssse…”

I bought a new dress. A NEW dress. The first one I have purchased since the debacle of '07. My papa was the only one who understood why I had ended things with Andre. Mama was not pleased. She had been trying to marry me off since my 18th birthday. " You have to look past their flaws, everyone has them." But I refused and alas, here I am 14 years later preparing for a first dinner with a noble gentleman who I had met at a local wine tasting. At the time, he simply said cheese paired with the wine means the wine could not stand on its own. I respected his passion for wine as mine for cheese. I can overlook that, but tonight, there would be no excuses for not trusting my impeccable fromage palate. With the new dress, fancy hair, and a smorgasbord of my most beloved cheeses, my heart skipped as the door knocked twice. I situated the tray for the last time. Oh, the beauty of the Beaufort Chalet d’Alpage, Carre Corse, Rovethym and ahhh the divine, Hercule. My heart flipped in anticipation.

The door knocks a third time as I made my way with the tray in hand opened it with a huge smile on my face. He smiled back until he eyed the tray. "Oh Mary, I must confess. I really like you, but unfortunately...I'm lactose intolerant."

The plate slid through my hand as though it had been severed off. I don't remember the exact sound of it as it hit the floor. I smiled politely, closed the door. Quickly, I reached down and picked up a thin slice of Hercule.

Oh, well. Here is to another 14 years. At least I have my cheese.

It was the kind of small town with not much to look at--unless you knew where to look. Peace and tranquility already accomplished, the desire for novelty drove the town's residents to search for the innermost meanings in everything around them.

It was the Fourth of July and the new neighbor, an old man, offered to host the celebration. Immediately, the residents were struck by the peculiarity of his picnic spread, a new mystery in town that needed figuring out!

Concealing the cheddar beneath the patty, the old man passed the first cheese burger on to his neighbor. While unpatriotic to compose the tradition constituent first, patty last, he explained that one merely had to just flip the whole thing over to make amends. If this wasn't curious enough, the picnic presented even more peculiarity: mac-in-tartar-sauce instead of cheese, and black tahini dip instead of cheesy dip!

Although uninhibited in appetite, the old man rejected his neighbors' offerings, and the conspiracy theories began to fly:

Do you think he's trying to poison us?

Maybe he just wants us to eat healthier?

He just wants the left overs all to himself!

Just then, a young boy had an idea. With a smile, he offered his own homemade watermelon and feta salad to the old man. As the old man picked out the cheese before daring a tentative bite, the boy solved the mystery at last: The old man was allergic to cheese.

Charity stares at me as I take my lunch out of my cheddar cheese colored bag. My best friend seems speechless as the scent of mozzarella, pepper jack, potato bread and tomatoes waft around us. Irritation flashes in her eyes as she says, "Girl, you are Obsessed with

cheese. And I mean obsessed with a capital O."

I shrug, "I would say that I like cheese, but I'm not obsessed with it."

"You eat cheese everyday."

"That doesn't mean its an obsession."

I free my grilled cheese sandwich from its foil, and lift it to my nose. I close my eyes as I inhale the delicious flavors of the cheeses melding together. I let out a happy sigh as a giant smile takes over my face.

Charity shakes her head and stabs her salad with ferocity. "You are definitely obsessed." She mutters under her breath.

I open my eyes. My world shrinks to just me and my sandwich. Nothing else exists. I take a huge bite, and my eyes water as the flavors I've been dreaming about hit my tongue.

"Claudia, are you for real? You're crying over a cheese sandwich." Charity says with disbelief, her eyes wide.

No time for her antics. It is me and the cheese.

I slowly chew, and my world explodes with salty, fatty goodness, punctuated with the crispy fluffiness of potato bread, and refined by the acidity of the tomatoes.

This is what I call heaven. Cheesy heaven.

Charity lets out a long frustrated sigh. "And you say you're not obsessed."