#124
At the tennis courts. Someone brings cake for a birthday. A woman who I know from the Monday night drop-in doubles. She doesn’t show up so we slice the cake and each eat a piece standing on the side of the courts in the late evening. The harsh lights from above make strong shadows. It’s the first warm night of the year. We’re all in T-shirts and shorts. Sweat pooled in those sweaty spots. The cake was confetti, which feels an odd choice for a woman I guess to be around 60, but who am I to judge? I eat a piece and the sugar hurts a tooth. The icing tastes of fake vanilla, the confetti stains the moist white cake in melted colors of green, blue, red, orange. I take a piece home. In the car, it sits on the dash. I don’t have a napkin.
I am the perfect candidate for a cake surprise because I know I’d love it and be overwhelmed and maybe even cry.
The next morning, I realized that I left the cake on the dash. A little harder on the edges. It hurt the same tooth when I ate it in one bite standing with the passenger side door open.