Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Cookies on the counter at work. Maple-syrup flavored. I've seen these before. It's a test. They are the kind where each cookie is two sugar-cookies, each in a maple-leaf shape, sandwiching a layer of icing so sugary it's crystallized. A mix of creams and taupes.

The two sides of the cookie are like Abelard and Heloise, the icing a terrible wall between them. By putting them in my mouth can I bring them together. I can make love real. I can end the tragedy in two bites. Oh and when all comes together it's like a row of high-fructose chorus girls dancing on my tongue.

Is how I remember it.

Historically I might have grabbed five--one for each sausage-finger. Because who knows when I'll need the calories? You need to fill up in case everything goes terribly wrong. They might cut off the supply at any point. They might round up the fatties for the camps. Or perhaps the balloon goes up, emergency broadcast system starts blaring. Bright lights and pops in the distance. Fill the tub with water; put the mattress against the windows. We'll have to eat the cats, and their bag of food. That would be a serious, notable breach of the human contract with pets, which is, at its essence, I will not eat you. Signed with your name and a pawprint.