Just Desserts
Preparing this headstrong whipped dessert, she thought about the year he nicknamed it “anniversary tart,” and how — when it didn’t come out right— his temper distilled there till the dining room turned to ice and the chair legs left black-blue marks. How his fury bloomed in her sleep like toxins that blocked the sun.
These scenes worked the muscle memory in her hands as she punched down the dough, then argued it into the deep pan. Two hours of heat forced the crust to play a protective role for the tender filling, which slowly released its sweetness. Later, while slicing it, the crimson of his manly parts flashed angrily as if caught in the act. His tenderized flesh tasted savory. Methodical chewing increased the atmospheric pressure. And her saliva was like a settlement of snow, tamping down the rough patches of a long road.
