Rich Tastes

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Abstract

ster behind her dinged. She reluctantly left her coffee to plate the just-crisp bread in the lemon China that was a hand me down from her mother-in-law. She had loved the sweet woman, cared for her through the last days of her cancer-infected life. It had drained her- the long hours of work and nights filled with hospital visits. But that was done now.She had barely managed to take her weekend trips, then. Her husband- still married to the man- had long left them, so there was no help. She didn’t know his whereabouts any more than he knew hers. But that was done, too.Cheryl poured generously, rich, hazelnut-flavored maple syrup on the bread, sprinkled grated cheese. It melted some, just the way she preferred. She took the first bite. The rich taste of the syrup dripping down her lower lip melted her insides. She laughed and licked the sugary wonder.She finished her breakfast and went out on the deck to get the view of the blue ocean. It was wild and angry. Who wouldn’t be

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? The spring wasn’t making its yearly appearance. The cold didn’t bother her much; it was the way of life- cold, spring, summer, rain, then cold. You had to live with what you had.That reminded her, the weekend was almost over, and she had to get back to her routine. She worked hard and figured she deserved her breaks. A weekend away from home and the madness of the city always helped. But it was time to go back. She couldn’t drag it any longer.Cheryl came back inside, cleaned the kitchen counter spotless. Bagged what she needed for the journey back home- some eatables, her clothes, a book she had brought with her, her mug, plate, a wine glass. She wrote a small thank-you note for the accommodation. Put her glares on, a hat she had scouted over the weekend, and left the beach house.The glaze-eyed, cold body in black, lily-splattered silk boxers she had left on the Cherrywood-bed would be discovered in a couple of days when the domestic arrived.</article></body>

Rich Tastes

Cheryl sighed at the first sip of her coffee, an excellent Peaberry brew she had discovered in a small coffee shop down the lane. The beans had hints of citrus and chocolate. She had crushed them herself in the fine retro-wood grinder, which boasted a hand wheel mill. It had made her cry. In her opinion, one should either drink good coffee or you simply shouldn’t. But since she couldn’t function without it either, she had to go for the substandard ones more times than she liked.

Cheryl sighed again. Her favorite fuchsia mug signed by her brother made a small coffee ring on the sleek white counter. She smiled. The toaster behind her dinged. She reluctantly left her coffee to plate the just-crisp bread in the lemon China that was a hand me down from her mother-in-law. She had loved the sweet woman, cared for her through the last days of her cancer-infected life. It had drained her- the long hours of work and nights filled with hospital visits. But that was done now.

She had barely managed to take her weekend trips, then. Her husband- still married to the man- had long left them, so there was no help. She didn’t know his whereabouts any more than he knew hers. But that was done, too.

Cheryl poured generously, rich, hazelnut-flavored maple syrup on the bread, sprinkled grated cheese. It melted some, just the way she preferred. She took the first bite. The rich taste of the syrup dripping down her lower lip melted her insides. She laughed and licked the sugary wonder.

She finished her breakfast and went out on the deck to get the view of the blue ocean. It was wild and angry. Who wouldn’t be? The spring wasn’t making its yearly appearance. The cold didn’t bother her much; it was the way of life- cold, spring, summer, rain, then cold. You had to live with what you had.

That reminded her, the weekend was almost over, and she had to get back to her routine. She worked hard and figured she deserved her breaks. A weekend away from home and the madness of the city always helped. But it was time to go back. She couldn’t drag it any longer.

Cheryl came back inside, cleaned the kitchen counter spotless. Bagged what she needed for the journey back home- some eatables, her clothes, a book she had brought with her, her mug, plate, a wine glass. She wrote a small thank-you note for the accommodation. Put her glares on, a hat she had scouted over the weekend, and left the beach house.

The glaze-eyed, cold body in black, lily-splattered silk boxers she had left on the Cherrywood-bed would be discovered in a couple of days when the domestic arrived.