Waving Not Drowning

"How can you do that? How can you go and do that? I don't- I can't." Daphne is sputtering now, apoplectic with rage and despair. "I mean, really. Really!?! You ate the last piece of my cake . My BIRTHDAY cake. MINE. I saved that piece specifically- you ate the corner piece with my name written on it, how could you possibly think that was meant for YOU?" Daphne collapses onto the stool at the island, exhausted. She's spent every last ounce of her energy and the full weight of the loss is hitting her hard. She has been dreaming about this cake all day. All week. She had portioned it out so that come Friday she could indulge, finally, in the best part of the entire last year. A custom four tiered coconut banana dark chocolate layer cake with a hint of mocha and edible flowers. Edible flowers, for crying out loud! Pink and purple and yellow, her favourite colours. She had searched high and low for the right bakery to make it exactly the way she envisioned it...

Should she or shouldn't she. This is the debate raging in Gemma's head. Unreasonably loud and quite combative for an inside voice. Like two angry lawyers duking it out in between her ears. She tries to focus, tune into her rational self, the side of her that can big picture it, think of the long term effects. The sleepless nights, logey mornings, the bloating and gassiness, maybe even cramping and nausea. What fun. It's just a piece of cake. A quadruple decker strawberry shortcake with a cheesecake bottom drizzled in a caramel crunch with pirouline crackers on the side. Ridiculous, she knows this. She wouldn't have to eat it all; she could have a bite. Or two or five or who the hell is she kidding. Gemma would inhale it in one sitting. Unbuckle her belt, untuck her t shirt, lean back in her chair and let it all hang out. At what point did she become Homer Simpson, she wonders. Yet she can't say no. At least not without playing this scene out over and over in her hea...

No one's moving at pace. It's so hot, unbelievably hot. India-hot. The metallic click clack of the aluminum crutches is slower than ever. Kevin's hands are sliding off the foam covered grips which are disintegrating in his hands. He should've splashed out and rented a pair from the Fracture Clinic instead of borrowing Greg's. At the best of times, Greg's indelicate. These crutches have been marauded by a 270 pound hockey player with recurring ACL issues. Live and learn. If he can just make it into the grocery store he can hover near the frozen food aisle, the one with the open freezers lined up like cavernous coffins, damning them all to hell with their environmental scourging of the planet. Screw that, Kevin is hot. His ankle is swollen up three times it's regular size. Cankles, Kelly calls them. She's having a field day with this. Mr. I'm-So-Sporty takes a header while trying to play frisbee golf half in the can, three sheets to the wind, completel...