A Letter of Romance

 

 

Dearest Darling,

It has been a tough week without you! I have so wanted to run and gather you in my arms that both my heart and stomach hurts. The golden-brown crispiness that you personify is like the sirens of the Greek mythology, I cannot but drift and be embroiled in your coils.

The soft opening and closing of the doors, the surreptitious glances and the tenterhooks of deep desire, the ecstatic joy and the final fulfilment. I really miss them.

How long can I keep up this yearning under wraps? How much longer need I catfoot around the obvious? How may I skirt the main issue of being faithful?

I know you are there waiting for me. All I need to do is unveil the truth of my heart. But I am a coward in both aspects of my double life. “To be or not to be” is the question, that hammers in my skull exactly at eleven a.m. and four p.m.

I need you. I am desperate. I will give myself a couple of days more then it has to be either here or there.

Will I give you up or continue to be in a clandestine relationship is what the next forty-eight hours will unveil to my psyche. I will be brave enough to take the bull by the horns and follow my destiny. Only You can help me ….

Yours forever

Whatever Happens.

 
I have written similar letters in my mind many times. Have I ever sent them anywhere? No I haven’t! Not because I am a prude (as my family calls me!) but the recipient is uneducated, illiterate and has no brains whatsoever. How would the receiver then understand the poignancy of the yearning and desire that besets me?

It’s not that you’re grand or glamorous. You’re small, quick, secretive, a crust here, a lick there, a bite of cheese while “just checking” if it’s still good. You thrive in the shadows between real meals, and somehow you convince me you’re invisible. “We don’t count,” you whisper, like a guilty crush. And I believe you.

When I’m waiting for the microwave to ding, you’re there. When I’m staring blankly into the fridge, hoping for answers to life’s problems, you’re there. You’re my little stolen moments, my snack confessions, my delicious denials. You’re not an indulgence, you’re research.

By now you would have guessed the ‘lover’ in my hidden life.

Oh, Half a Cookie, you’re so selfless. You break in two just so I can convince myself I’ve only eaten “part” of you. Sweet Broken Chips at the bottom of the bag, you don’t count because you’re “basically seasoning”

You’ve been my co-conspirator, my secret ally, my tiny rebellions against portion control. I know the scale knows about you. I know my jeans know about you. But still, when the clock hits 11 a.m. and I’m standing in front of the snack cupboard like it’s an oracle, you’re there — a crumb, a bite, a spoonful of comfort.

Will I then be able to fight the inevitable and squash this desire into shapeless crumbs? The forty-eight hours will soon pass and as I stand against the tide, the sea salt in my crisp will awash my determination and the sands beneath my feet will give way to your dominant personality and I shall be Scarlette to your Rhett. All my resilience and strength will be “Gone with the wind”.

So here’s to you, my invisible indulgence. We both know you count. We just won’t say it out loud. “And so, until tomorrow, my beloved crumbs, I remain yours — secretly but irrevocably.”