I stared at the single gladiola adorning the table of the restaurant. The wilted petals belied their brightly coloured hues. I felt sympathy, as I had a sense I looked somewhat the same. My makeup, applied 10 hours ago, still held its colour but had that smudged, worn look. As did my clothing. I noticed with a grimace, I had a small red stain on my shirt. How long had that been there? Boy, what a day! I needed this. I told myself.
I sat up in my chair, straightening my posture, so as to attract the attention of the slovenly wait staff, who seem more interested in socialising than serving. No doubt sharing some galimatias^ they would gossip about at the end of their shift.
I shook my hand in the air, waving and trying to meet the tall, willowy one’s eye. With visible sufferance, she finally wandered over.
“Are you ready to order?” she asked, with all the radiance of a spent light globe.
Ignoring her attitude, I placed my order, “Yes please I’ll just have dessert – the chocolate brownie, lemon meringue pie and the Italian donuts. Oh, and a coffee too. Thanks.”
Her eyes widened. She seemed on the verge of saying something, however immured* her thoughts, instead turning to take the order to the kitchen.
I watched the chef through the cut-out in the wall. I did like these open-style, industrial-type kitchens. You could see what was happening and make sure no untoward hygiene practices were taking place. I looked on with satisfaction, as he took the knife and cut a huge wedge of the pie. The peaks of meringue were like waves atop the glorious yellow tart. He placed it on a plate and commenced piping double whipped cream around its base. It was like a mountain from heaven.
Next was the chocolate brownie. He pulled it straight out of the oven and mesmerised, I observed him slide the slightly oozing chocolate block onto a separate plate. He gripped a traditional ice cream scoop and dished up three lashings of vanilla bean ice cream on the side. I was starting to drool.
Out of the deep fryer, I watched him whisk out three tiny, doughy balls. He rolled them in cinnamon, drizzled caramel sauce and nuts over the top, garnishing the donuts with a single strawberry.
He dinged on the bell and the waitress returned, balancing the three small dishes on her arms. She sat them down in front of me.
The saliva in my mouth was viscous and ready to receive.
I could not wait for the cloudburst of euphoria that would accompany each bite, wiping the misery of today into the hereafter.
Then I realised.
I’d forgotten my insulin.
By Sarah ©2017
* immure (verb.) to enclose within walls. to shut in; seclude or confine. to imprison. to build into or entomb in a wall.
^Galimatias (noun.) A secret that must be kept on pain of death.
Words used: insulin, posture, shake, suffer, cloudburst, immure*, hereafter, slovenly, radiate, gladiola, restaurant, galimatias^