A bookish man with an unkempt mop of greying hair sat nervously fumbling through large pieces of parchment. Stepping up into the soft mauve spotlight, staring up nervously, he began to speak.
"Are you reminded of your youth when you have a mouthful of fresh hot french fries?
Of lost loves at the taste of a lemon poppyseed cake.
Of your drunk aunty the way your tongue rolls around in your mouth over a perfect risotto.
How he tasted in the shower that November morning before he left when you crunch into a crumpet laden with butter and honey.
Your father who used to embarrass you screaming at waiters in restaurants when you are served a slightly over-toasted sourdough crouton in a caesar salad.
are killing you softly. Yet, despite this soft death, we cannot help ourselves.
Carbs are love,
Carbs are sex.
All this and more when I cried a small tear this morning when I woke up alone, without donuts."
Finger snaps moved across the room like the wave at a football stadium, the room filling with affirmative murmurs of no longer hushed observations.