by Lynda Forman
I am eating white cake with white frosting at 9:00AM on a Sunday. It isn't a special occasion, and I've already eaten breakfast. But you left again this morning, for the road that will lead you home, and I miss your sweetness. With each bite, I remind myself to lick my lips, close my eyes, and picture your eventual return. I will save the red rose made of icing for later, carefully eating all around it in straight, fork-controlled lines. When the longing becomes too great and I need to feel full again, I will part my lips and swallow the rose whole.
Lynda Forman is a freelance writer in California, who is often a ghostwriter, so you may never see her name credited, yet you may have read her work. She loves cake.