I eased back into my chair as my blind date kissed
his spoon and left it in the remains of our winter citrus
dessert: While you were taking so long in the ladies’
room, I ate the amazing pudding and ice cream thing
The seasonal sweet had vanished, the last one in the
kitchen until the pastry chef recreates it next year—
I thought we were going to share it. He shrugged. My
favorite café now sullied by this blind date thief, the
gobbler of all things good. The end of epicurean. A waft
of fragrant fresh oranges and mint leaves teased my nose.
No chance the pastry chef would make one more. New
menus had already been posted. I was tempted to scrape
up the creamy streaks of Meyer lemon posset glazing
the plate, rescue the single pomegranate seed under the rim,
and dab a finger in the traces of blood orange sorbet, a
memory to last another three-hundred sixty-five days. Not
a flake from the tiny delicate almond meringues was left.
Gone for good, like me in a minute. I leaned forward staring
at his lips, considering kissing him to savor the tang of lemon,
but knew his mouth would taste like metal.
Sandy Deutscher Green writes from her home in Virginia USA where her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and appeared in Bitter Oleander, Paper Dragon, Neologism, and The Lake, as well as in her chapbooks, Pacing the Moon (Flutter Press, 2009) and Lot for Sale. No Pigs (BatCat Press, 2019).