This prompt requires the use of oddly-named desserts. I have bolded the names I used for ease of identification. I didn’t manage to include fat rascals, treacle sponge, or pond pudding.
Across the table at our local café, my date
hair in a black bun, spoons into his dessert, responds
to my question with a mumbled
summer berry grunt, his attention
focused on his food, a drizzle of purple
red juice runs down his chin.
Beside us, two teens, both dressed
in matching berry-red sweaters giggle,
raspberry fools in sweaters and jeans,
tossing their heads of tight dark curls.
The server passes by, hobnobs with
the girls. Drops a plate. It lands
face down in a puddle of rhubarb mess.
A smear of fruit clings to his left
shoe’s orange buckle.
I look down at my own dessert, a fat
round slice of jelly roll. Raspberry jam
oozes out of the cake. It looks a lot like
dead man’s leg, but proof is in the taste.
This guy is a washout, but there’s
consolation here on the plate.
Carol A. Stephen
April 15, 2018