’ ‘You might bring a recipe book too. I’m a little rusty at this. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever made a cake.’ Joyce stopped at three tree lots—three mostly empty Christmas tree lots—on her way home to get the ingredients and a recipe book for Ms. Barden’s Christmas cake. And when she got home with a scrawny little tree with bare branches on one side she was fuming at herself for not having bought something at the first stand and then having run out of time. Christina would be home about midnight, and there was barely time to get to Ms. Barden’s, make the cake, and then drive Ms. Barden to her party. The woman had dropped the fact that the party wasn’t at her house, and Ms. Barden didn’t drive. It was 11:15 when Joyce got Ms. Barden and her Christmas cake to her party, which turned out to be at Mrs. Franklin’s house. ‘Here you are, Ms. Barden. Hope you have a great party.’ ‘Could you carry the cake in for me, dear? I’m so afraid I’ll drop it.’ More likely you’ll forget to take it, is. Ignoring your calls, not responding to messages sent…no matter how heated and erotic…no matter what fantasy you are currently exploring with those soft curious and experienced fingers of yours. I resist, though it isn’t even resisting, because my drive to indulge in your many skills has been banished, exiled, and left me to my solitude. Of course it does not bother me…in that moment I am exactly where I want to be, so ignoring you is not even a conscious decision…it is merely me, being me. As I lay there, lost in the flicker of the candle, Something Corporate's ‘Konstantine’ gliding throughout the room, a darkness obstructs the white wall that moments earlier provided the backdrop to the flame that had possessed all thought. I close my eyes tight and open them to find you standing there in the open carpet of room. I close my eyes again, tighter, and open them to confirm that it is in fact you. It is. Your expression is limited, unreadable, yet smooth. Your eyes pierce.
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