Like when I can smell pancakes cooking!
I could weep. I really could. And while the thought skitters into my brain that maybe MR's poisoning us or these cakes were dropped off by the mailman/maulman, I know in my heart they are made with flour, sugar, baking powder, vanilla, salt, and that when I press them to the roof of my mouth, I will know a fundamental and final kind of joy.
Reprieve. Freedom. I crave these like the dogs must pancakes. I taste them like the saliva pooling in my throat.
Alone, of course. Hungry.
But me, Lucy, I'm also hungry for more. One pancake is the same as none once it is eaten.