Ths morning my husband left for work AND FORGOT TO LEAVE MY CAKE BY THE SOFA.
Now I want that cake. If I close my eyes, I can see it. I can smell it. I can almost taste it. It's a truffle torte sort of a thing, dense and intense, with a cocoa dusting on the top. My friend Brianna brought it yesterday. It is nestling in a deep, sky-blue cardboard box laced with gold ribbon.
On the kitchen counter.
In a normal life this wouldn't be a problem. I would simply stand up, walk into the kitchen, and get the cake. But it's absence poses a serious problem for the bed resting woman. I've been told to stay completely still. To rest in bed at all times. Don't fix yourself a bowl of cereal, my doctor told me; don't get up to make yourself food. She specifically said that. Don't get up to make yourself food. No unnecessary activity whatsoever.
And so the cake rests peacefully in the kitchen, uncut and untasted. Meanwhile I lie here, drooling slightly. Longing, longing for that small slice of heaven.
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