It will be the pie’s fourth day in this world,
unrefrigerated. What was once a soupy,
delicious filling will, by this point, be as hard and terrible as the heart of
that bitch who left you a fortnight ago.
“Fuck you,” you’ll mumble at the pie each time you pass it
in the hallway, hoping that some measure of your rage measures for the pie and
makes it understand the agony that you’ve been through.
The pie will remain unresponsive.
You’ll consider throwing it away. It will be old and stinky, and pie doesn’t
really stay good for that long. But
throwing it away would constitute a gesture of contrition, an acknowledgment of
fault on your part: by throwing away the pie you would indicate your
understanding of your own culpability in the end of your most recent
relationship. And you couldn’t bear to
do it.
So you’ll leave the pie there, crustless, drying out. You’ll leave it there, pausing only to check
for signs of mold. Maybe when they start
to show, then you’ll decide to throw it away.
Maybe.
Congratulations on Letting the Pie Solidify!
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