A Sweet, Cold Finish

It was over dessert—smoked brown butter ice cream accompanied by a delicious cornmeal pie—that I had decided to go through with my plan. It began, much as I presume this dish once had, as a concept I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. The idea formed as haphazardly as a child’s drawing. A stick-figure and delusional concept arrived in my brain, unwarranted, but curiosity kept the mind experimenting. The plan developed as thoughtfully as the flavors of this ice cream.

I took a bite. There was a warmth to it. The spoon dipped into a glass jar, slicing through a thin layer of olive oil before plunging into the ice cream itself. There was a crumb on the side, meant for dipping the spoonful into.

I wondered if he had yet become aware that I had made up my mind. Each bite I savored, closing my eyes to consider the flavors—and to consider my plan—only vindicated my decision more. I wondered if he could taste it in the air, taste it in the bitterness of his dark chocolate flourless cake. Cake should never be without flour.

Love should never be without truth. I remember the first time he expressed his love for me. It was here, in this café, under these same flickering lanterns, surrounded by these same deep red walls. The world was buttery back then, creamy and frosted in wonders that could salivate the heart, even in its dreams. I’m ashamed to admit I licked the batter of love that was his expressions to me by the spoonful, and I fell for him so entirely that I hadn’t noticed until it was too late that I was the secret ingredient lured into the batch itself and shoved into the oven for baking.

I had been fooled. It was in this café—this place that I had loved for so long—that I had been stuffed, plucked, and lured. Even still, savoring the bite of cornmeal pie—what an interesting dish—sliding about my tongue, I give thanks to this place. What irony it is that the place that made me a fool would also be the place that made me all the wiser.

“Are you alright, my dear?” he asked me so calmly, I almost burst into laughter.

I withheld my cards, concealed my newfound wisdom, and smiled. “Of course, dear.”

“Do you enjoy your pie?”

“Of course, dear.”

“And your ice cream, is it too cold?”

“Of course not, dear. There is nothing better served cold than ice cream.”

Love should never be without truth, and yet, through my teeth I professed an utter falsity. He suspected nothing, nor would I give him anything to suspect. My heart had calcified, hardened over time, the way an assortment of items does when tucked away in the freezer. His heart was nothing more than a freezer—a place to store things you don’t consider useful at the moment. A space to keep things from rotting when you inevitably forget about them, and so instead they freeze, burn, and harden in the deep, unforgiving darkness, never promised light or usefulness.

I tasted the cornmeal pie with the ice cream, together in one bite. It was magnificent, so methodical in flavor and texture. The only thing that I could imagine tasting nearly as delicious was the perfect execution of my plan—something served better cold than ice cream: revenge.

I watched him rip into his cake. Each bite he took, his face twisted. The chocolate was very bitter; I could tell from his reaction. Bitter was all I’d tasted in the entirety of our false love. The flavor had stained my taste buds so much that I had forgotten what anything else could taste like.

However, the moment I made up my mind, sweet had been the only thing I’d been able to taste. The flavor was so strong I nearly melted at the table. My brain buzzed with anticipation and wonder. Like a child, the sweet metabolized into quick spurts of energy that revitalized the meaning of life for me.

I couldn’t remember the moment—assuming it could have ever been deduced to one—when I had been fed the bitter thing, and never fed anything else again. I couldn’t remember the moment I had accepted it, submitting myself into a total state of denial. But this moment, I would remember as the moment I cracked the egg. And now, sitting here, almost at the end of the evening, with so few bites left between us, I will set the timer on the oven.

My plan is one of simplicity. All of the best things are. Revenge shouldn’t be a perplexing concoction of ingredients. It shouldn’t be a science. I’ve frequented restaurants with infuriatingly complex dishes, and the chefs seem to enjoy convincing diners that these science project dishes are delicacies—are fine dining, and are best. I know, however, that this is not truth.

Truth is easy to replicate with ingredients found simply and understood by the majority. Lies are constructed of too many ingredients, trying to accomplish too many things, trying to trick the diner into thinking it is a delicacy—it is fine, it is best. Truth will not be on the menu tonight, unfortunately. Neither will lies. I am at my wit’s end with either—and love, I am beyond myself with that as well. No, my plan is purely devised to satisfy one craving, and that is the craving of revenge.

I take my final bite as he takes the last of his. We have both dined our final dish together. The waitress removes the plates between us and lays the check on the table. I watch him, wondering how much this revelation was worth. If one could put a price on the amount they were willing to spend on their final moments, how much would it be?

I laugh to consider that if we had not come to this café, if he had not insisted on having dessert, if the waitress had not convinced us to get our own desserts and not share the bitter chocolate flourless cake, if I had not tasted the wonders of my dish, I may not have had the eureka that assured me I was ready to act on an idea. An idea that began as undeveloped as the blandest of dishes, and now, after much thought, has evolved into a sweet cuisine as perfect as any culinary delight.

“That cake was awfully bitter.”

“Oh, my dear, my dessert, I tell you, there is nothing so sweet.” He reached into his wallet, ready to pay for the tab. “Oh, no, please, allow me, my dear.”

“No, my love, I would be beside myself if I allowed it.”

“Of course, love, but, please, I insist. Allow me to, for once, show you your worth to me.”

He took my hands and uttered those three words that I have come to find so bitter that I felt my face twist at once. “Is something the matter, dear?”

“Of course not. I am ever filled with the wonders of your love for me.” I reached into my purse and fished for the credit card.

“I am so grateful to you, my love,” he confessed as the waitress arrived. Moments later, the waitress returned with the card, two receipts, and a pen.

“I hope all was well with your dining experience today,” she exclaimed.

“As always, Wendy Lou, you are, as always, our favorite,” he responded.

It took me seconds to scribble in the tip and signature. I handed it back to the waitress and smiled.

Noticing the tip, the waitress’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? Is this correct?”

“Yes, you deserve it,” I assured her.

He and I walked to the car, hand in hand. I took my seat in the passenger seat, and he in the driver’s. He turned the ignition on, and that’s when I remembered. “Oh no, dear! The card—I forgot the card!”

“Never mind that, love, I’ll go fetch it for you.”

“Oh, no, my love. The card is here. I forgot to give it back.”

“Why on Earth would you give it back, my love?”

“Because, dear, it is not mine.”

“Whose card would it be?”

“Well,” I slid the card out of my purse and into his lap. “It was left behind in your car, so it must be hers.”

“What on Earth are you going on about—” He raised the card close to his eyes to see. His face flushed, and his body sank into the seat. “Wendy Lou.”

“I figured, if she could take my man, the least she could do was take me to dinner. Absolute treat, it was that you two insisted on dessert, as well. Why, I was so pleased by the end of it, I left her the most gracious tip.”

“What is this!” He struggled to open the door and scurried off toward the restaurant. In the meantime, I took it upon myself to slide over into the driver’s seat. I had always wanted to take the wheel. The moment felt good.

I pulled up to the glass doors of the restaurant just as he and Wendy Lou caught sight of me from the other side. He nearly knocked her over rushing out to the car. He pulled the passenger-side door, plucked and plucked again. Defeated, he knocked on the window. I rolled the window down and said, “Next time, dear, you might want to skip dessert.” Then I pulled off.

This must be what they call a sugar rush.