Dessert Before Dinner

It was the best slice of chocolate cake I've ever had.

When I cut the cake with my fork, the slice was moist and rich. The cake's thick aroma filled my senses like waking up to fresh-brewed coffee in the morning. The slice stared at me, taunting me, tempting me to order another. And yet, I couldn’t have it. At least, not yet.

The cake was staring at me through the glass case similar to how an expensive piece of clothing might tempt you from the inside of a store display. I looked at the time on my cellular phone. It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening. He would be here any minute.

I shouldn't have had the first slice, but I had to kill time somehow. I never thought this day would come. Life is weird sometimes. One day, you're minding your own business, completely absorbed by your computer fulfilling your daily tasks, as monotonous as they are. Editing another stranger's picture, removing wrinkles, likely caused by stress or old age. You don't even realize the wrinkles setting in on your own face. At twenty-five, I was too young to have wrinkles from old age.

I knew what was causing them.

Then, you get a message. A notification pops up on your phone. You think it's an alert from your boss, another client that needs more wrinkles removed, but it's not your boss. It's not a work colleague, or an old friend from grade school. It's your best friend. At least, he was your best friend. There was a time when you told him everything, and now you are both complete strangers, no different than the clients whose wrinkles you digitally remove on your computer.

And he wants to meet... tonight.

I had to think really hard about the last time I saw his face.

I used to be able to see his face so clearly. I could close my eyes and see those freckles as if I could identify each one. I could visualize every line on his face, every scar, every pigment imperfection. He once asked if I would remove his facial scars while I was editing his photos. I smirked and told him, "Your scars give you character", and he scoffed and rolled his eyes at me. It wasn't condescending, or even rude. It was cute. It was affectionate. Only he could roll his eyes and it would be a show of love, not ridicule.

I wasn't being rude, either.

Now, when I close my eyes, I don't see anything. Not a scar, or a freckle, or even a single wrinkle. All I see is nothing but a blank canvas. Even when I try to fill that canvas with a rough picture of the person I remembered, it's not even remotely close to capturing the person he was.

I look at my phone. The time reads six fifty seven. He was usually fashionably late, which always annoyed me when we were together. Now, I am thankful for it. I pat down my cobalt blue button-up t-shirt, making sure to remove the wrinkles in the fabric. I look at my brown dress shoes, noticing a smidge of dirt. My eyes dart to the table, taking a napkin and dipping it into my drinking water. "I hope I don't get thirsty". The older woman looks at me from across the cafe. I smile. She probably thought I was talking to her.

"I'm waiting for someone", I tell her. She ignores me.

Of course she ignores me.

The smidge won't go away. "He's not going to notice", I tell myself. I look at the time on my phone again. It reads six fifty nine. Suddenly, I'm having a hard time breathing. I pat down my black slicked back hair. There's at least two very noticeable hairs out of place. Now I'm sweating from behind this collar. It's so tight it feels like it is suffocating the air right out of my lungs. I lean back in my chair, trying to remember the grounding exercise my therapist taught me.

I look at five things I can see: table, wet napkin, cup of water, packets of sugar, and then... him.

There he is, standing right before me, like he just transported out of thin air. It was like no time had passed. I became inundated with all of the details I had forgotten, like a wave of salt water hitting me right smack in the face: red freckles, facial scars that were subtle and scattered all over his face like war paint, hair was perfectly parted. Not a single hair was out of place. It was like he stepped out of a time machine and set foot in this cafe, looking exactly the same.

"Hey. " He paused. Are you okay?" he asked.

He spoke to me. I can't remember the last time I heard that voice. I had saved voicemails from him on my phone, but when my OS system crashed I lost everything. Hearing his voice was like slipping into a warm bath. It was deep, confident, assured. The way he verbalized every syllable was with such a purpose. He tilted his head down just a little, his way of saying "Everything is okay" without needing to speak another word.

"Hey, I'm fine. Sorry, I had a smidge of dirt on my shoe."

He smiled, and laughed. It wasn't mocking, but understanding. "I could tell. I saw it from a mile down the street. It's ghastly." I looked out the window, trying to hide my own reaction. I saw more hairs out of place. I immediately went to try to pat them down, but he swooped in, like an eagle targeting its prey. He gently touched my hand. With a subtle smirk, he intoned in his raspy cadence, "It's fine. You look great."

"Thanks. You, too. You look completely different."

Then, my heart plummeted to the very bottom of my chest. He looks exactly the same, why did I just say that?

"Order for David". The barista's voice echoed through my head like an opera singer bellowing in the biggest cathedral. I limped to the bar for my beverage, not even telling him that I was going to get my drink. You're so stupid, now he's going to think he looks awful. I just kept reading that over and over again in my head. I picked up my coffee and headed back for my table. It felt like the longest walk of my life.

There he was, sitting by the table. He had such good posture. As I walked around him to sit down, I could smell his cologne. It was quaint, but still noticeable. The smell made my nostrils flare up instantly, like igniting my senses all at once. They were firing on all cyclinders, and the mere visual of him was a sensory overload. As I sat down, I immediately went to the sugar packets. I didn't stop at just one or two. I kept on putting sugar in my coffee like it was an avalanche from Mount Everest, and I could tell he was watching, just itching to say something.

"You're not going to get anything?" I asked, hands shakily ripping open sugar packet after sugar packet.

"I dunno if there's going to be enough sugar for me after you're done". He smirked, and the way he moved his lip upward was so perfect, so effortless, like he practiced that smirk a million times in the mirror, even though he likely never did, not even once.

"You don't even drink coffee past three thirty."

"Maybe I do things differently now."

I scoffed, and he noticed, raising his eyebrow. He would always do that when he was needling me, and this time was no different. "In all the time I've known you, or... knew you, you never changed any routine. You always ordered the same exact meal wherever we went. And you always ordered dessert before dinner."

He smiled, and this wasn't a subtle smirk. It was a knowing smile, the smile you make when you are recognized, when you are seen.

"And if I know you, you were absolutely tempted by that chocolate cake I saw in the display."

I looked down, putting the sugar packet down. The blood drained from my face. My palms became sweaty. The pit feeling in my stomach returned. I felt gutted, like he just shoved that butter knife directly into my heart. I couldn't remember the last time someone acknowledged me in such a way. The feeling of being known, of having someone remember such intimate details. It was overwhelming, like drowning in a sea of sugar packets.

"Why did you want to meet, Ash? It's been nearly a year and a half."

"You know, actually, I am going to order something. I'll be right back."

I hated when he did that. It happened nearly every time I stopped the small talk to ask him a genuine question. As he left the table to order, I sat there and looked out the window as the sun set. Nothing had changed. This was the same person who would ignore my texts or calls when we were fighting. The same person who would sleep on the couch when he did something wrong. The same person who ordered the same meal wherever we went.

I was foolish to think he could change.

When he came back, he set a small dish before me. It was exactly what I thought it would be: a slice of chocolate cake.

"I know what you're thinking", he said, as if he could read my mind. "There's a reason why I wanted to meet here, tonight. They've had this chocolate cake on the menu for the last five years. They've made it the same every single time. However, last week, it was like the chef had an epiphany. I saw an interview and he said, "I was sick of making the same cake every week and it tasting the same. So I decided to make a change." And tonight, he decided to debut this very cake."

As he spoke, he cut into the slice. He was very deliberate with his movement, just like the way he spoke with such assured confidence. He cut a slice with his fork, and lifted it up.

"He then said, "I know my customers will have their doubts. They may even miss the old cake. But I assure you, this new cake will not only taste just as good, it will be better. Sometimes a change is necessary."

As he held the fork in one hand, he raised his other hand and took a sip of my coffee. He then put the coffee down, and looked at me right in the eyes. He lifted the fork before me, and presented me with this immaculate, moist bite of rich, chocolate cake. The perfect bite.

"Then, he looked his customers in the camera, and said, "I just hope they bite."

"He did not say that."

"He absolutely said that. Watch the interview. It's on YouTube!"

I looked at him, his blue eyes staring right back at me. I looked at his scars, how perfectly they were scattered on his face. I looked at his wrinkles, how they made him look older and wiser. I looked at his freckles, how they looked exactly the same, but also different than how I remembered.

I leaned forward, and took a bite. It really was the best slice of chocolate cake I ever had.