Monday, December 19, 2011


You see it there, in its perfect place in the box, its surface flawless, shimmering, almost liquid, like the unbroken surface of a mountain lake in winter.

The smell, intoxicating, memories of easter morning. The hunt for hidden treasures, for the prizes held in coloured foil, the smell you could smell right now.

But fingerprints, like at the scene of any other crime, betray. The surface not so pure but the smell all the more inviting. The touch firm but slowly giving way. Slowly surrendering to your touch.

The first bite, small, barely scrapes the sides. The perfect shape almost intact. The rich taste overpowering all else, no part of the body fails to notice its presence.

A larger bite can not be discreet. A crunch and the loud chewing could be heard by any who came too close. But more powerful, the taste. No longer restricted to the tongue, it fills the mouth, covers the teeth and gums, makes the first taste, which seemed so important before, almost meaningless.

The surface now is broken and jagged. Beauty being overcome like a national park cruelly mined by a company only interested in profit and progress. More bites only enhance the feeling that something wonderful is being destroyed.

When it is gone it cannot be forgotten. The fingertips, once marking the surface has their role reversed. The last remains cling and even the licking of the tongue cannot clean them completely. The mouth remembers still. Craves a second helping that will not come. Craves that which can be felt going down to the belly.

And when all has gone one piece of evidence always remains. The empty space, staring hopelessly from the box.

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