A Chocolate Cake For My Love

One. Two. Three cups of flour. As I drop the powder into the bowl, it poofs, leaving remnants of itself on my hands and around the edge of the container.

It reminds me of the evening snowstorm when I first encountered you. I was walking alone on the sidewalk, the surrounding air illuminated by streetlights reflected off the snowfall. You were headed in my direction, moving slowly, your head down in the flurry.

You and I were the only ones out then. I should have been scared, on my own with a strange man, but I felt like I always knew you. You smiled and gave me a small wave. We talked all night. The snow crunched with each step we took, and snowflakes glimmered like jewels in your dark hair.

I add three cups of sugar as well, the crystals shimmering under the kitchen's fluorescents. The paper bag it came from crinkles, a dry sound, as I curl it back on itself for storage. I sprinkle in the baking powder and soda, bitter cocoa, and a teaspoon of salt.

Salt. A taste that's hard to describe, but I know it right away when it reaches my tongue, like the kiss that lingered on my lips on our wedding day. Your dad paid for a ceremony on the beach. The indigo sea stretched on behind us, as limitless and full of possibilities as our lives. Your green eyes sparkled as the waves rolled over us in the shallows, and I had never been so in love with anything else. We made promises and danced under colored lanterns, the red and yellow light dancing with us.

Out of the fridge, I pull a dozen eggs with shells of blue and mint green. I bought them from my auntie's farm, where we spent many summer days riding horses and feeding pigs. You loved to walk the fields and the rustic feel of her old barn.

You used to joke that we would own a farm of our own one day, where the kids could run and explore the way children should. It would be our humble paradise away from traffic and neon signs, where we'd grow old sipping tea on a wooden porch.

With each cracked shell, I think of forgotten dreams, each one tossed aside like garbage. With each yoke I spill into the batter, I think of the children we'll never have. I pour buttermilk into the mixture and think of the babies I'll never feed with their little heads against my chest.

Adding the water, I imagine you with her in the hot tub. She left her black and red bikini on the patio, the top hanging from my chair. The aroma of vanilla reminds me of the candles. I saw them first when I entered the room. They flickered a warning; their sweet scent made my stomach churn.

I drizzle vegetable oil in my concoction and think of her slick and sweaty against your skin. She smiled when her gaze met mine, a mean glint in her eyes. You didn't notice me right away, so busy with your face in her neck. When you finally turned my way, I ran. I couldn't stay to read your expression. I was so afraid of what I'd see.

As I mix in the final ingredient, I ponder our days in couple's therapy. You said I was controlling and jealous. You said I didn't allow you to live freely. You said I didn't love you. I possessed you. You said you weren't sure if you loved me anymore.

It finishes baking, and I let it cool, like you. You're angry with me for reading your text messages again, but I don't know how to trust you anymore. I'm always looking for her in your chats, your schedule, and your lies.

You're sitting in your office now, refusing to come out. When you do, I'll have a glass of cold milk and a slice of chocolate cake waiting for you. You'll smile like you used to, so surprised by the gesture. You'll eat, and you'll die.

Tomorrow, I'll bury you in the garden.