A Cake

One, two, three, four, fi –

“The skies are pretty crowded today, huh?”

I look up to find this chubby man with desperate eyes looking back at me. Desperate eyes were the new norm nowadays. Even I looked desperate. However, this man still insisted on wearing his happy contact lenses like a therapist required to ensure her client that he isn’t crazy. This poor man, too dumb to realize that nothing can distort the desperation woven into his wrinkles.

“It’s crowded up their today, huh?” He pointed upward, assuming I was deaf or as dumb as him. He’s not going to shut up, is he?

I look up. Missiles with the speed of a child having just discovered the freedom in sprinting. Fliers, the brave fighting for us, the world’s finest guard dogs. Smoke, the trace of damage. I look down. “Yes, it’s crowded.” One, two, three, four, five, six, sev –

“You ever think the bubble’s gonna break?”

“No.” One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, ei –

“I swear it’s gonna fall in one of these days.”

“Everyone, please have your stamps ready!” The volunteer reminds us. Who would ever choose this?

“I don’t trust it,” the chubby man continues.

One, two, three, f –

“I’ll never trust it.”

BOOM!

The fire now enveloping our town square reminds me of the last sunset we shared. The sky painted red. Your parent’s broken-down cabin, others would describe as “vintage.” The pier just as “vintage” as the cabin. The fleece blanket matted to death. The smell of your sweat: one-quarter cup musky, three-quarters cup hard-working.

“Everyone, please have your stamps ready!”

One, two, your chest as my shield, three, four, the wet grass –

“That couldn’t’ve been good.”

One, t –

BOOM!

It’s hot down here. I can’t imagine how hot you must be.

“Another one? Geez!”

“Hey, buddy,” a new voice claps behind me.

Like spectators of an Olympic table tennis match, my fellow impoverished and I track the source of the noise, just to make sure we aren’t the ones to be scolded. The dumb, chubby man is the only one unaware.

“I said, ‘Hey, buddy!’”

One, two, three, four, five –

“Me?” I swear I hear his chin jiggle along with his confusion.

“Yeah, you, open your eyes, look forward, and move up!”

When his desperate eyes finally understand the empty thirty feet before him, I feel bad for ever having called him chubby.

“Please have your stamps ready!” We shuffle like a funeral march to the tune of a record stuck on repeat. It’s the same every day. The same march, the same record, the same booms. I know I haven’t lived my whole life like this, but I don’t remember when life started to look like this. I remember being with you, but I don’t remember when not being with you started.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. What can I get with nine stamps?

“Next.” I run to the available officer.

“I only have nine stamps.”

“Okay, what do you want?” He asks while sighing at the line behind me.

“Eggs, flour, and milk.”

“How much of each?”

“What can I get with nine stamps?”

He scoffs. So sorry to bother you with the responsibilities of your job, sir.

BOOM!

Today must be a bad day. I can smell the smoke through the bubble. The dingy, the grimy, and the burning all rearing their ugly heads like your cousins during the holidays or your pervy boss whenever I visit you at work. Scum. But you always manage to fight them off.

“You’re all set.”

Two eggs. A handful of flour. A sip of milk. “That’s it?”

“Yeah, Nine Stamps, that’s it. Next!” I guess I have a new name now. Perhaps, things are changing.

The take the same steps on the same sidewalk home. I dodge the same shoulders of the same strangers as if it were all rehearsed. How small can a cake be before it’s a joke?

BOOM!

The chubby man was right. Another one? Geez.

THUD! Gasp. Gasp. Gasp.

I pause the rerun that is my walk home and follow everyone else’s eyes. There’s a dead man lying on the top of the bubble. I trace his blood dripping along the curve of our town’s shield. Stop. Let the man die in piece. My walk resumes.

How can a good person make a cake after seeing that? Is it possible to flavor a cake with grief? How sad can a cake be before it makes you sick? Maybe a death-riddled cake isn’t in the cards for us.

“Ma’am,” a shaky voice peels my eyes up from the sidewalk. He’s young, scared, and too small for his uniform.

“Yes?”

“Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

BOOM!

Eggshells shatter. Milk spills. Flour envelopes me. I’m now nothing more than lady with a stamp deficit and a wasted, deconstructed cake on the sidewalk. Is this what dying before your time feels like?

“Ma’am, please accept the government’s condolences.” His hand penetrates my vortex, full of pity stamps. As the white mist dissolves, I find the write-off in my own hand.

Before I can fully realize what I was just told, I run into our house. Is it just mine now? I grab the mop, but cleaning the floors was always your chore. I run back out, tripping on the welcome mat. You would’ve killed that mat. How dare he get in my way?

How am I supposed to clean with a dry mop?

My mistake allows me a moment of silence. Depressed city-dwellers not bothered by the raw egg they just stepped in. The young officer running from one house to the next, aging exponentially with each visit. The dumb, chubby – The dumb man about to become forty stamps richer. The dead, bleeding man now gone. The bubble around us all a little shaky but still standing.

I melt into our front step like the milk in the cracks of the sidewalk.

You didn’t have to die. Now, I don’t have anyone to talk to.