I scratch my head and look at the tiles along the bottoms of the shelves. My hand twitches and I scratch the surface with my torn fingernails. It's like the dried toothpaste that crawls around the rim of your sink. Shuddering as I recoil my fingers, I continue to spin, and finally stop at what I'm looking for.
Cupcakes. It's a Martha Stewart book – filled with cupcakes. I flip through pages of pumpkin ginger, fourth of July, Crème Brule, and my mouth is watering.
I want a cupcake right this second.
I try not to think too hard. Focusing on the cupcakes should be easy enough. Wrappers, frosting, cake, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. Should I buy it?
It would probably just end up sitting on a shelf somewhere, like my other cookbooks.
The ceiling fan is still burring. So I zip up my jacket and frantically continue to search.
Maybe I would finally put my pots and pans to use. Maybe I would stop being lazy and apathetic and just start baking already.
The science/fantasy fiction is over my shoulder, and my eye catches an older man with brown, rumpled curls and a gray blazer. His glasses are crooked. I wonder if his wife makes him cupcakes. Suddenly his glance shifts towards me and my reflexes sink back into the sweet pages of confection. I feel pathetic.
The shoes on my feet are old and comfortable. They rock back and forth from heel to toe as I am pensive.
Twenty-five dollars. Cupcakes. Shelves and crusted toothpaste. I have no kitchen of my own. The only ones who would eat them would be my little brothers.
Maybe it isn't worth it. Maybe none of it is.
My heel hits the carpet and I spin.
When I leave the cupcakes I feel sad, like they were all friends. And when I keep walking through aisles and aisles of pages I don't want to be found. I want to hide with my friends forever. We'd cook and laugh and bake cupcakes together. Sometimes we'd cry but in the end we would find peace because we would know each other.
For some odd reason leaving the book has made the night melancholy. But I ignore my insides and continue for the exit.
The sliding doors opened and the cold got worse. I would rather be home by the fire with my cupcakes.
