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1994-01-28
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1KB
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31 lines
Too Long
Copyright (c) 1994, Gage Steele
All rights reserved
Too Long
by Gage Steele
I lift the chilly plate from its shelf in the refrigerator and slam
the door shut with my heel. Bluish plastic wrap crinkles and puckers,
having been sealed and resealed too many times around the dinner ware.
Beneath the plastic lies what's left of my birthday cake, the dancing
letters are smeared, illegible. I tug the covering away, wad it up and
hum it at the overflowing garbage bin. It lands with a wet slap against
two day old coffee grounds and sticks there. The cake is stale, I warn
myself, but somewhere inside, something has to know this for certain. I
dip my forefinger in the brown frosting and lift a glop to my lips. The
underside is palatable, but a fine layer, the topmost, crackles on my
tongue. I spit it out into the sink, tasting, faintly, mould.
A vase of roses stands on the counter next to the sink. The flowers
are dead; petals litter the area, brown like the cake. A whispery spring
breeze flits through the open window, rousing the ruined bouquet to a
gentle hiss. I pick up the vase and stare at the roses for a moment,
once, so beautiful, now made ugly by time. My arm arches, swooping over
the sink, over the lip of the window and hangs, frozen, briefly. And
then, I let the vase fall to the ground below.