[For the one who endures, of course.]
When I get home
from New York;
from the office;
I will drop my things in the nearest chair.
my gym bag;
In my bedroom, I will remove my constraining jacket and pinching patent leather heels. I will lie on the bed as I dial your number. The moment I hear your voice, all the exhaustion of the busy day evaporates. I will tell you, come on over, we’re having cake.
I have one hour.
In the kitchen, I know I need the sweet things. Vanilla, for instance. Lots of vanilla.
When I was younger, I made the same mistake over and over. I would remove the cake from the oven and when it was still hot, slather the frosting on. The frosting would melt, making a big mess. But it was so good that way, with the chocolate dripping down the sides. You would have to lick your fingers clean after every taste.
I make the mistake again. I just never learn how to wait.
When you show up, just as you said you would, I invite you in.
And serve you layer cake.