Sandy Green
The coffee cake has its own life alongside vanilla
ice cream without being drowned by its neighbor
thawing on the plate. The measure of one is the
gage of the other. Melted caramel rings the wedge
of cake and dollop of ice cream in a hug. We sip
coffees as we ascertain the plate. You have a robust
German blend. I have decaf. We clink our cups
and slurp. It’s been a long time since we’ve shared
a sweet, but we remember how to cut with the edges
with our spoons and scoop. Cut and scoop. Sometimes
our spoons clink, and we laugh. Like hockey sticks
before a game. We take turns, and you’re never
greedy. You pause, and I swallow and finish my
sentence. The dessert is gone and enjoyed, and we
lay down our spoons together.
Sandy 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).