My Cardboard Balcony

S'more Cupcakes by Belinda Roddie S'more cupcakes cool in their wrappers as the tin is set out where the light is just catching the edge of the tablecloth, glass after glass of milk settling in the dust of the kitchen. We pass out sweets on plates, plastic and bright red, chewing through the goo of marshmallow paste, the sugary taste exploding on our tongues. Our rendezvous has wine on coasters, cookies on display, and just the right amount of cheese in bowls to serve with crackers. We plow through the day with flavor in our mouths, flame in our souls, and hot liquor and dairy to chase down our treats, whether salty, sticky, or brown.

There was an old bible I picked up from the church still sitting in the corner of my bedroom as I packed my last suitcase. I wasn't even sure why I had kept the thing - maybe I had simply forgotten about it, and it certainly looked as if it had, appearing to be more dust than leather or paper. Still, I picked the bible up and brushed away the sheet of age, staring at the stamped golden letters on its cover. Why did I snatch this from the church? I guess because it reminded me of her.

Minivan by Belinda Roddie Ten teenagers piled into a broken down uncle's minivan with two bottles of Tullamore Dew, a plastic jug of lukewarm sangria, and a twelve-pack of apricot ale stolen from an ignorant parent's refrigerator. The first teenager popped the cap of one bottle and let it fly into the second teenager's forehead, leaving a dent so precise that it was like a crescent moon etched into the skin of a stunned moon goddess. The third and fourth teenagers found a corner to kiss in, while the last six juvenile jesters turned up the radio as loud as they could before the battery drained away and the engine wouldn't sing to life. And they all soaked the booze from glass vessels of shame, and they all climbed to the roof so the alloy sagged beneath their knees. And they all ran for the bushes when the cop car whipped by, the silent streak lost in the symphony of tires on the wet concrete.

"Her feelings are pretty overt, man," the barista told me, referring to her coworker, who stood in the corner with her back turned as she repeatedly washed the same glass in the sink. I sighed. "I'm flattered," I said. "Really, I am. But I'm happily taken." The barista shrugged. "Anything could change." "And I plan to propose to her," I added sternly. "Still, anything could change." "Like your attitude?" I sneered.

Today Is Foolish by Belinda Roddie There is imagination deep enough to fill a baker's teaspoon, thick as flour but hardly appetizing, the dollar on a string versus the fake pregnancy announcement typed in bruised text on a small tablet screen. It is disconcerting how the humor is lacking, like using coffee to soothe a throat aching from laughter rather than tea with just the right amount of honey. A sweetness is needed to carry the trick out, a gentle reminder that some scrapes can't always be healed with a bandaid. The jester stays in her tower now. Today, she is foolish. Other days, she is wise, dancing a choreography so neat that the king does not notice how she mocks his gait. He finds it all very clever. But if she were to perform this particular evening, she would caper and the monarch would roar, "How dare you tease me!" with the hot wax dripping from his teeth. All taste lost. There is nothing but dry dust in his cup. The flavor is...

The house had a welcoming atmosphere, and the heavy and pleasing odors of the adjacent food table certainly helped with that. I grabbed a paper plate and filled it with delicacy cheeses, sausage bites, chicken legs, and olives before trotting over to the balcony, where my friend Joy was watching her father play tennis in the court below. "Great place," I told her. "Thanks." Joy smiled. "It'll be all mine once the old bastard kicks it."

Kissing In The Candy Shop by Belinda Roddie The rain has lessened somewhat, though the cold is still lingering, handsome fingers brushing against the denim of my jacket, your fingers, painted, reaching for a plastic bag so you can dump your fill of treats into the price-managed reservoir. We've brought coupons, minor attempts to save on gummy bears and M&Ms, peanut butter balls and jelly beans, building blocks of sugar to stain our teeth and please our tongues with. You humor me, while I desperately try to shove a quarter into a machine so it can tell me if I am "mild" or "spicy" in nature. I bite into a s'more bar and caress your cheek with graham cracker residue on my lips. To say you taste sweet is both an exaggeration and a cliché. In the candy shop, everything is saccharine and sticky, and your kisses are the comfortable kicks that offer me sustenance compared to my artificial high.