My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "Who would ever accuse little old me of such a thing?" "Mrs. O'Reilly, apparently." "Oh, God. There are so many things wrong with that." "Tell me about it." "First of all, I was not that drunk. We've calculated the degrees on that one." "We sure have, John." "Sadly enough." "Yep." "See, I was only third degree intoxicated." "Run by me the elements of third degree again." "Well, there's still a grasp, if somewhat shaky, of the world around me." "And speech has yet to be slurred." "See, you remember one thing. But the hippocampus has not been hindered. I still held judgment." "Indeed." "Second of all...her son isn't even that hot." "You know what, John? I totally agree." "I know, right? He's like a three-point-five on a scale of one to ten." "

A little bit of flour, a teaspoon of vanilla, and an excessive amount of sugar was all it took to bake the cake. Carlos drew it out of the oven, smoldering hot, and set it down. His hungry Corgi, Martin the Sixth, licked his pink gums, waiting for a crumb or morsel or chunk to descend into his mouth. Carlos cut the cake into very, very thin slices. He set a place for himself at the table, then a place for his wife. This was her favorite cake.