It was a day inspired by a collection of Elizabeth Berg stories: The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: And Other Small Acts of Liberation.
I churn in my bed, winding the covers around my ankles until I can’t stand it. I crawl to the end of the mattress, introduce my toes to the carpet and tip myself into a day of prospect. Today is different — I get out of bed.
It begins, as it always does, with a nectarine. I gnaw it until I hit pip, then slather my tongue over it to capture all the juices, only reeling it in when I remember that scene from that book. Good thing I am alone today.
I break a KitKat up the spine, then clip off each vertebrae with a gleam in my eye. Snap-Crunch-Snap-Crunch-Snap-Crunch. It’s the little things.
Whatever did happen to the Hungry Caterpillar at the end of his book? Did he bloat and die out in the sun? Did he enter heaven? Because the euphoria I’m feeling is worth any torturous death to ensue.
Savoury hour. Grease-slip potatoes and leftover curry that sings singed spices into the air. I twirl with my fork, spinning on the kitchen tile, one warm mouthful after another.
