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Piece of Cake

January 22, 2015

On top of the gear shift between Reggie and I was a styrofoam take-out box, and inside it was a piece of cake.

“Have some cake,” Reggie said. “It’s good.”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“It’s cake,” somebody said from the back seat. “Have some.”

I know it was after two because the place we’d gone to with the go-go dancers up above us in cages had already closed down.  It might have been after three because we’d spent a real long time getting from coat check out the door and over to the bar with the jazz band that started packing up just as we sat down for a plate of wings.  That must be where Reggie got the cake.

“Fine,” I said. I reached over and slid my thumb up under the lip of the box. It popped, slid, squeaked, and the lid sprang open. There was the cake.

Reggie was still parked, I think, when I pinched off the top layer and the caramel that stuck to either side.  Only a few crumbs dropped past my knee onto the floorboard of his car when I licked the frosting off my fingers.

Reggie was right. It was good cake.

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