Thanks, but I'm fine.

She takes another chocolate out.  She eats it.  Just eats it.  No savoring or appreciating, because her tongue is dull from having so many.  She rests on the suede, plum colored sofa.  Her eyes mingle over the gray sky and the branches that form a broken-egg shell pattern across her vision.  Her face is relaxed, almost comfortable.  She reaches into the plastic bag again.  A second passes before her fingers find a tin foil wrapped morsel, because she has already almost depleted the bag's contents.  She eats the chocolate.  Another pound accumulates to her hips, and another layer of misery (this one denial) is added to her soul, her onion of hurt.