Toast With Jam
The plane was descending slowly. It emerged from the clouds and I witnessed the countryside rolling by, rewinding beneath the belly of the plane. The joy welling up inside of me. Instinct was telling me to fight back the tears. One escaped, smudged against my cheek with the back of my hand.
In the blink of an eye we're at the bed and breakfast. The sky is overcast. The air is humid. The light shining through the tall, curtainless windows seems to be clinging to the panes of glass. It whispers 'Let me in.'
I am hungry, but the Italian only wants to eat the toast and jam provided by the b&b. 'How can this be?' I think. With a good bit of pleading I manage to pull him out into the daylight. Our mission, food. I feel the air on my cheeks, it is cool. The clouds part, letting the sun drench Paris, the city below, with its light.
It is but a dream and I am no doubt craving two things. A trip to Paris and most pressing, toast with jam.
I took the day off from work in order to take care of some things. First thing, the dentist. I find it only fitting that I should prepare for a trip to the dentist with a cup of hot English Breakfast tea, toast with strawberry jam and some figs. Very sweet. I'm used to an unassuming granola bar most weekday mornings.
I look outside and it seems as if the day refuses to wake from its slumber. A Thursday. It, like me, moving in slow motion. We are both waiting for the weeks end.
How can one take off on a Thursday without taking off on a Friday? It's insanity. My work ethic is strong, but sometimes my desire to sip tea while watching 'As Time Goes By' on public television in the middle of the afternoon is stronger.
I wince at the very idea of having to answer questions while someone is working on the inside of my mouth with waterpick and various sharp implements.
'How are you?'
'Do you drink coffee?'
'Do you drink wine?'
'Do you smoke?'
That's 'fine', 'yes', 'yes', and 'no'.
I'll come home to an empty cake dome, smiling with the thought that revenge is sweet.