miðvikudagur, ágúst 30, 2006


He used to hide the box from her so she wouldn't eat them all at once. This was at her request. Then, occassionally, she would ask for just one, please, shyly, with her head tipped a little down and just a bit to one side and her eyes looking up from under her lashes, coy and abashed both at once (--the way I have since then caught myself doing, sometimes, not often, and not in sight of just anyone). He would bring her one (just one), and she would place it on her tongue and savor it as it dissolved.

They were very much in love.

Then a box of them comes to light in a crate full of books. (He had hid them in the library; she had never known.) He can't bear to throw them away, and he can't bear to keep them. I said I'd drive west with them and eat them on the way. But they're five years old and melted, he said. I don't care, I said. I'll eat them on the way.

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