Midnight Supper Series: Pancakes

• 1st November 2014
• 0

The deed is done, and you’re fast asleep. I know from the predictable rise and fall of your not-quite-Adonis body, the occasional snore.

I have mapped you a thousand times but your topography still fascinates me. I know every twist and turn, exactly what you like. I also know that you’re a museum exhibit, an artifact on loan, never destined to be mine.

It’s almost light out and I know soon you will go. I know you’ll soon be back in the arms of her who’s name is scrawled permanently on your back.

I know you won’t stay but I had to try.

I gently fold the meringue into the batter so that the pancakes would be lighter than clouds; lighter than my head is when you kiss me and I forget the breathe.

The batter hits the hot pan, to rise and rise before collapsing on itself in a contented sigh; the way I do in your arms, every time.

The bacon sizzles in its own fat, perfuming the kitchen with its heady porcine scent; a comfortable, despite knowing it’s bad for you, kind of aroma – like how you are, for me.

I stacked the pancakes sky high, crown it with strips of bacon. A creation like this demands a baptism in maple syrup, to be bathed in warm liquid sunshine.

I walked back into the room, pancakes and heart on a silver platter. You were already showered and dressed, ready to go.

Would you stay for breakfast?

You know I can’t.

I know. I know.

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