Last Year's Cake

Upon seeing her, I know instantly. I want to be her. The one with the wide brimmed bone black hat and those jarring eyes that never telegraph their punches.

Soon she will hold apiece a sharp cake knife, dangling it over a newly acquired, newly antiqued fireclay farmhouse sink. That blade will drip the crumbling guts of a sacrificed strawberry pound cake. By the end of the night, the knife will come to rest discarded inside the belly of a martini shaker. The last of its days meted out: no better than a plastic party store cheese knife.

But for now, she jabs into it, his birthday surprise.

He makes a show if it, for her. His unflappable wife, the center of attention.

His wife.

He put thought into it, his selection. Pound cake, with a side of bright berries.

Not decadent cheesecake.

Not sexy smooth mouthwatering red velvet, with a heavy dollop of heavy cream cheese frosting.

Not a naked vanilla bundt, happily lacking all the needless frosting.

Not a lemon torte—which he knows to be her favorite—with raspberry coulis and whipped creme. All the tart, all the sweet, packed into one sumptuous mouthful.

No, this year, he goes with pound cake, with strawberries, on the side. Not another run-of-the-mill boxed cake with sprinkles, like last year. That earned him time off for good behavior for the low-low cost of showmanship. That ended with a bang.

She takes her time with it, his precious pound cake, like she's done this before. I'm fascinated by her strategy, unable to avert my azure blues. I watch intently as she goes about carving, equal parts apoplectic and unperturbed, dividing its possibilities, its promises, into equal bites.

She thinks, let's be fair.

She slices clean through, but doesn't eat.

Why make a mess of things. Let him have his cake.

Not a trace of cynicism in the corners of her pouty pinked mouth. And yet, I feel her fire catching as it crosses the visible spaces red lining their lives.

I'm beginning to understand her.

*

This is where he chose to do it, a packed party room. Her kitchen, dining room, and living room. And his.

The scene of the crime.

*

I am deflated. Another satin balloon about to pop, strung up in ribbons, playing at something. Waiting for my chance at the prick.

She wears a cascade of alabaster Edison pearls around her slender neck. They waterfall gently down her slippery gray silk blouse. The lustrous pearls brush her tightly toned, jewel studded navel. I all but collapse beneath the weight, a sucker punch that landed before I knew what hit me.

I never saw her coming, until she saw me.

An invisible hand brushes me into the ceiling, where I definitely am not dancing. It'd serve me right, discovering my stringy bits caught up in her fan.

Adjacent to her two carat peridot (that would be wasted on me) slips a thickly jutting band of bright white gold. It protrudes from her exposed innie, teasing just above wide legged pin stripped pants she giggles every time she describes as 'slacks.'

She's moving up in the world. Taking her career by storm. But let's not go overboard, she says. She's irked by his compliments. She doesn't need him to tell her how beautiful she looks tonight, or how brilliantly her mind works.

She never did.

He wraps her up in his arms only to watch her duck and weave. She wriggles away, choosing instead to wrap herself inside the loving caress of his slate gray scarf. The one I bought him. During our much anticipated get-away in Middleburg. Last weekend.

Her trampling laugh is an intrusion, breaking into my thoughts like a thief. Her understanding of my role, a bitter sting. The worst thing.

I deserve her wrath. But I exchanged no vows with her. He did.

I retrace every step, every choice, every moment of not knowing.

All the while she's not eating cake, I'm not getting chewed out.

I can not forgive myself. I recall it all. Happier times.

Mine. And his.

Never again.

She blows out her candles. She makes a statement with her silence when he asks—in front of her friends, and his—what she wished for.

Who knows?

I feel my fire die. Perhaps I was a candle, clinging to a flame? Not just another load of hot air blown about by an indiscriminate wind?

She nibbles the beds of her nails until they're short and sharp. Her only faults, from what I can tell. Nail biting, and him.

Her perfume waves, taught sails snapping bright bursts of sandalwood and sage against a mountain of proof. She glides her perfect boat across the turbulent waters, through the waning people, those blissfully ignorant party goers, until she dry docks, face to face with me.

She doesn't blink.

She hands me a plateful. Calls me a friend she's happy to get to know. Says she's coming around to pound cake. Perhaps it's the refreshing, wholesome nature of those freshly picked strawberries.

Better than last year's cake.

***

Copyright © 03/22/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.