Your eyes window shop, slowly savoring the red velvet cake balls and licking the dew that has settled in the creamy folds of the icing. I take one from the plate that you hold out so willingly, trying to see your desire. It tastes like Play-doh to me, because death makes me lose my appetite. Perhaps that could be your excuse. Trust me, you’re going to need one when you get caught.

For now you revel in the freedom, nibbling broccoli stems with a guilty hunch of your shoulders. You refuse the oriental dressing but accept yet another hot water with extra lemon wedges. I order the item with the most mayonnaise because it makes me sick. When you excuse yourself to the restroom for the fifth time, I follow. We trap ourselves into neighboring stalls of chipping plaster and make small talk to each other’s footwear under the thin wall that separates us. It’s the first time you’ve been alive in weeks. I flush too soon, so that I can end the conversation myself.

I linger in the stall, feeling the hard edged partitions around me because I don’t want to see you look at yourself in the smudged mirror above the porcelein.