ghdfjkghdfkjgd: March 2011

Three Desserts written by Benjamin Evans

He smoked his cigarette and looked over the desserts the waiter patiently displayed for him. The temptations sat on a silver-plated, highly decorated platter. Much like his decision on whether to come out tonight, he was slightly hesitant telling the waiter what he would like to have. The array of cakes and pies all appeared to be appealing, yet none up to par.

At first glance, the carrot cake looked to be the right choice. The bottom half wasn’t much to talk about, it was simply a cake of carrot. But above that the rolling white cream appeared to be hard and firm, something he could really hold onto if he wanted it bad enough. Something he could press his lips up against, slowly taking in the softness and purity of the skin. Though the bottom half kept getting in the way. She was a lumpy, sagging body of cake, a neglected jumble of ingredients when compared to the rich, maturity of cream held above. She had aged poorly, and had been left on the platter for too long. Her crumb no longer held together like it used to; she had seen better days.

Couldn’t others see that she was just jumping from table to table, with the hope someone would devour her and take in all the carrots, raisins, and crème she had to offer? After a mediocre steak, and a few cheap bottles of wine, it was becoming clear this was not the right choice. The steak he had for dinner had certainly done the job, and hit a spot or two on its way down, but something was lacking. At moments the piece of meat was cooked to perfection and he thoroughly enjoyed those quick, few bursts of delight. Though there were sections of shriveled gray that amounted to nothing more than disgust and despair. No, he thought, he was not ready to commit to the old slice of dessert. She much like him was old, weary, and used. A combination of the two was not fitting.

Adjusting his tie and taking another drag from his cigarette, he examined the apple pie. The piece was cut into a perfect slice, fitting for the embellished silver platter. There was no question that it would taste sweet he thought. The settled sugar on top was thick and gleamed back at him like a seabed of pearls, each one tantalizing on their own. This made the man feel uncomfortable though; it was if she was too perfect, too heavenly, and too good to be true. He briefly imagined ordering such a dessert and cutting into the perfect slice of bliss only to discover its fruitfulness, juices, and sap pouring out in gushes. Gushes that were too much to handle. He then envisioned himself quickly trying to gather up the mess and fix the problem by sweeping it back under the hard crust skirt and assuring it “Everything will all right, trust me, everything will be all right”. It was a mess no man wanted part of.

The waiter noticed the man muttering and eyeing the pie. The waiter took some initiative.

“Ah the apple pie sir, a favorite amongst our guests. We serve it hot with a side of vanilla ice cream. I can go heat that up for you if you like, yes?”

Smiling back up at his waiter, the man noticed his head and neck were still bent over the entire platter, hands on the table, clenching the white tablecloth, ready to pounce and his press his advantage with any on of the desserts. “Um that does sound good, but I’m still not sure just yet…” the man responded.

He re-adjusted himself once again, this time slowly positioning himself back into his chair, keeping a calculated distance between his hands and mouth and the goods in front of him. He had to trust his eyes.

He quickly realized the apple pie was merely a lustful affair. It was a burden only a fool would agree to. It was nothing more than a nicely dressed piece of cut-up fruit and an all to easy penetrable crust. The sweetness of the pie didn’t seem so sweet anymore. The sour mess left in his imagination was too much to bear. He had been down that road one too many time before and was not about to get reeled back in because of some pretty pieces of sweets that would taste good in his mouth.

Maintaining his posture this time, he cautiously slid his eyes over to the cheesecake, an enticing yet dangerous experience for the naïve. He knew the delicacy in making the cheesecake. He knew the fresh cheese on top of sponge, on top of eggs and cream. And he knew this be New York style. He was attracted to the purity of the cream much like the cream of the carrot cake. Though with this one, there was no sag, just a solid piece of cream and egg. The yolks used in the cake added sheen to its skin. He wanted to run his fingers over it, to know its touch and feel all of its innocence. The heavy cream cheese made his mouth salivate. He knew he would be full after eating it. He wanted to dive not with his spoon, but with his fork into the dish at that very moment. Ultimately pinning it down, gaining the leverage he needed in order to slide his knife through the moist, saturated layers. The very idea of wading through the cream, piercing the eggs, and kissing the cherry on top aroused him to a point beyond self-control. He began to falter in his posture, and the waiter took notice.

“Have you made up your mind, sir?”

The man patted his forehead with a green handkerchief. He was sweating now, drenched in his own fears of making the wrong decision. He felt like the decision did not even matter now. To him it would just another chapter in his life, another drifting affair, another ‘good idea at the time kind-of-thing.’ He began to think that if-

“Well if he’s not going to order than I am. I’m really sorry, he does this every time we go out.This one, or that one? This one, or that one? God, Marty, make up your goddamn mind for once”, said the white haired woman sitting across from the sweating man.

Removing her attention from the man now, she smiled at the waiter and said, “I’ll have the apple pie with extra vanilla ice cream, please.”

“Hey, that’s what I was going to choose!” Exclaimed the young girl sitting to the left of the white haired woman. “Go on, Marty, just don’t sit there, tell her! I don’t like people ordering the same thing as me, it’s so, so… well you know, it’s so rude!”

The young girl appeared to be in her early twenties. She was beautiful. A brunette. She began to play with her pearl necklace now, something she did when she was nervous or dissatisfied about something. The man assumed it was because of this most recent dispute.

The waiter, turning his attention now to the last woman at the table, “Okay, so two apple pies… and for you, miss?”

The blonde, fair-skinned woman did not respond right away. A cigarette lay between her red lips smoking. She softly told the waiter she wanted nothing and resumed back into the tight, quiet posture she lived in all night.

“Sir?”

“Say,” responded the man, “do you have any desserts other than these three right here?”