My Cardboard Balcony

The Cold Spoon by Belinda Roddie While eating soup in a greasy spoon, I watched an old man gnaw at a hamburger with nothing but bleeding gums. The taste of tomato in my mouth was far too sweet for my liking, and I drained it from my quivering tonsils with warm milk. The frosty, shivering silhouettes of truck drivers in their blue booths, huddled against their fleece jackets and their ear-flap hats, shook me up a bit as I laid down a very hefty tip from the leather wallet that napped in short bursts on the inside of my tailored black sports coat. I wrote a brief nibblet of encouragement on the receipt, bundled up with a scarf, and nodded goodbye to the men with snow in their eyes.

Joey had dreamed of a bittersweet romance. Not a succulent one. Like eating dark chocolate without a gooey cherry center. Or caramel. Caramel, to her, was the epitome of overindulgent sweetness. Like asking your tongue to wrestle for glory against a swamp of sticky kisses. She sat down at the café with a black coffee and a croissant. All butter. No sugar.