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have a slice of pie. |
I pick the berries like a virgin picks sins— softly, with both hands and a little anticipation. They bleed on my fingers, sweet and stupid. God, they smell like summer's inner thighs. I am naked except for the apron that says “Plant Daddy” in ironic script. The world is ending at 4:16 p.m. sharp. It’s 9:03 and I’m sifting almond flour like a priest shaking ash. Somewhere, missiles or meteors or marauding gods in debt collector shoes are buckling the atmosphere like bad knees. CNN’s on mute. My man is still asleep, drooling on the pillow like the angel he isn’t. I cube the vegan butter with precision. This crust will be divine. No survivors doesn’t mean no standards. Outside, the basil sings its green little song. I water it gently— each leaf a final note in a hymn to futility. I kiss the tomato vines because no one else will. The coffee pot coughs awake. It sputters like an old man recounting war stories no one asked for. French roast. Extra bitter. Like me. The pie goes in. The house fills with that smell: baked sugar and impending doom. The timer is unnecessary, but I set it anyway. Thirty-five minutes. Long enough to pretend this is just Sunday. He wanders in, shirtless, sleepy, scratching himself like a dog with rights. “I had a dream we were safe,” he says. I say nothing, hand him coffee.. He smiles like he doesn’t believe in clocks. I serve the pie. The crust flakes like old secrets. The filling steams like prayer. He moans a little. “This is amazing,” he says, and I forgive every stupid argument about socks on the floor and excessive Amazon orders. Outside, the birds are losing their shit. Even the bees have stopped pretending. Sky’s gone the color of an old bruise. The kind your uncle calls “weather.” He asks if I’m scared. I say: “Only of underbaking.” He laughs. He always laughs when I’m being a bitch about nothing. I kiss his forehead. The windows rattle. The cat climbs into the sink. The pie is half gone. The coffee’s cold. I feel lighter. No more emails. No more rent. No more We regret to inform you. No more Your payment is past due. At last— my student loans will die with me. Praise be. Sallie Mae, I'll see you in hell. We hold hands. The ceiling trembles. He squeezes. I squeeze back. My last words? “Goddamn, that crust was perfect.” |