When he moved into her apartment he only brought a small bag of clothes and a waffle iron. "I love waffles," he said by way of explanation. He placed it in on the counter beside the toaster, ready for waffling. For the next six months things went from good to bad. All of his storied ambitions of becoming a productive writer showed themselves to be mere fictions and fantasies. He just wanted to drink her wine, to have sex with her when the mood came over him, to smoke her last cigarette. In the end, when she screamed, "Get out!" through tears and he raised his hand as though to strike her, she felt foolish and ashamed for having fallen for such an empty fairy tale as him. She was a smart girl, but she could not figure out how he had gotten into her life. It terrified her to have that particular flaw. Years later she would look back and realize that he had actually fixed that part of her. She never let anyone like him happen to her again. That was the only thing he ever gave to her. Well, that and the waffle iron. She was grateful for both. She found it in the cupboard under the silverware drawer a couple of months after he left. It hadn't been used, not even once, since he had placed it on the counter on that first day. She thought about throwing it away, but instead she took it out, put it back beside the toaster and made waffles. It was Sunday morning, the first Waffle Sunday. Her children, who arrived several years later, always thought of Sunday as Waffle Sunday. So did their children.
Hello, friends. I hope you’re ok.
Later. Love.
(Originally posted April 28, 2009)
