The Last Slice
Oh, last slice of baklava. Tonight, I am being good. I finish devouring your sister and fold up my napkin. That’s it; no more. But as I reach out to close your plastic shell, you whisper, “See how the light gleams in the pooled honey next to my wrapper.”
It’s true. The honey does gleam, lying there in sweet half-globes. It seems dark against the black plastic, but I know that if I should happen to get some on my finger and hold it up to the light, it would be yellow. Yellow, sticky, and so sweet. I still have the sweetness on my tongue from the slice I ate.
But I am done for the night. I want to sleep soon, and if I have more sugar it will keep me up. I shut your container and push it to the edge of my desk, turn away and begin closing tabs in my Internet browser. I reach for my water, next to you, and happen to look down. Read More