What’s to stop us from waking up
tomorrow and being fudge? My daughter fidgets in her seat behind the table that
comes up to her clavicles, picking at a placemat thread like a curious chicken.
In the aquarium of smoke to our
right, my father melts off the tip of his nose with the pipe he’s had since
’72. Answer the girl’s question, he says, nose dribbling down his cheek.
If I had chosen anything else for
desert, you would have asked the same question, wouldn’t you?
No. My chicken-daughter moves on to
a neighbor thread. Fudge specifically. Of course she was lying, I didn’t
believe it for a second.
You’re being ridiculous, no one
wakes up as fudge.
Do you know that, or are you just
saying it because no one’s woken up as fudge yet?
An inundated snort tells me
father’s nose has undoubtedly been blown apart all over his trousers.
This is absurd, I say.
My daughter bobs her little head,
the thread enjoying no relief. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen though, right?
Rolling my eyes, I take a bite of
the silent fudge square in front of me, surprised to find a warm, wet cherry
gushing between my teeth.
