The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is “delicious.”
The object of my considerable consternation has decided to follow me home from school.
This is what I get for being nice.
If she was a flavor of ice cream, it would be vanilla, of course. But artificially-flavored ice milk vanilla. She tended to melt into whatever background she stood up against.
Between periods, she got caught up in the great crush of the hallway, spun (thrice) and her books went flying. She sank to her knees, a pebble in a fast-current of students.
I was trailing.
And stopped to help her out, less she get swallowed.
As I handed a spiral-bound notebook back, she ran a warm, dry hand across mine, blew the hair away from her eyes and smiled.
I grabbed the hand and hoisted her to standing.
And walked away.
The notes started immediately. Loopy script with smiley faces dotting the I’s. Straight-forward prose about her life, likes. Odd stuff about dreams.
I. Didn’t. Care.
She was a half-block behind, fighting with a backpack and some foil-wrapped tray – when I quickened my pace. I thought I’d lost her within the Dykman’s hydrangea bushes, but there she was, sitting on my front porch.
She’s got a plate full of the most misshapen, burnt chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever in my life seen. My guess is that she’d not done all that well in home economics this semester.
She thrust the tray at me, looking demurely down at the wooden steps.
My only way in is to accept the offer.
I nab one, take a bite, two. Their dryness makes mastication difficult. I struggle.
She thrusts toward me a pint of skim chocolate milk, obviously pilfered from the cafeteria. I drink, greedily.
My vision grows warm, most colorful.
And she has become the most fetching woman I’d ever seen; swoon fills my heart. My temples, my cheeks, grow flush.
“Those are some pretty awesome cookies,” I say, using my best small-talk voice. “Deliciously crunchy.”
“You think?” she asks. “I fear the orris root oil, deer’s tongue and catnip caused the dough to get much too crisp.”