Little Black Dots

The spoon disappears in faded yellow thick vanilla ice cream that quickly dissolves and marbles the microwaved preserved burgundy sour cherries. Little black dots are soon lost in a sweet semi- chilled mousse- the final pitiful state of an ice cream.

No thing of beauty. Wasps slowly begin to fight over the sticky leftover emulsion.

They land a few times on her hair as if she was a corpse. How dare they. I try to get rid of them without touching her. She is not…I stop.

She couldn’t be bothered because she, too, is fighting over the remains of that pale pink milky syrup at the bottom of the cheap glass in front of her. It is a silent fight with a shaky spoon for a last bit of that rich smear.

Buzzing and clanging silence. Absence is ever so present in the cling-clang and zzzz zzzz of this ordinary summer day when everything should feel different but it doesn’t. 

The world moves on mindlessly.

3,80 Euro. A sob and another sip of coffee.

Unbearable how little they care, those spoons, preserved cherries in their glasses (how many of them did she open throughout her life? How many satisfying plops when the vacuum seals broke, finally promising a sure end to that red cherry soup?), and those wasps, and those little black dots at the many bottoms of glasses. She wipes her mouth, “The night before he held my hand and said good bye."

Unbearable are all these things after we enjoyed our spoonful of life.

Copyright © 2012 Julia Milz