by Sheri Short
I once knew a guy named Chris. He liked to wear white jeans and relished in the music of Tracy Chapman and Jane Siberry. He used to tell me that I was pretty and smart, no matter what I saw in the mirror. He used to make me a sweet, snowball-shaped cake with puffy clouds of coconut flakes on my birthday. Then one day he left me and my heart disappeared into the trenches, without the hope of rescue. Years later, covered with guilt and regret, my heart deserted the dark but still longed for the days of puffy, white cakes and the guy named Chris.
Sheri Short works in the fast-paced, volatile and always dysfunctional fashion industry. However, she would rather spend all her time writing the next Pulitzer Prize winning novel.