Key lime pie and that is all except for the so much more

My ex always used to bring me water. Before bed, at a café, wherever—but at night was when it mattered. He did it half-asleep once, in the hours when there is no light, only feet peddling against sheets. Then he drank all of it and got up again to get more. There was never any question.

—


I carried a key lime pie around my house tonight. For several hours, without eating it.

I carried it from its Whole Foods' bag in the kitchen into my room where I called my ex. He talked, I listened, then I saw the pie sitting on my desk chair. I began to get angry; he was standing in the way of me and my pie. I hung up.

Instead of getting my pie, I almost immediately called another ex. I stopped. I examined why I flew down this reactionary, pie-less path. I got out my journal to write about it.

I wrote, then started creating something that could be a big something. It was going to be called The Purpose Project, but it might not be because of this and these guys. It will be something else. It's in my journal now gestating, growing limbs.

I noticed the pie was still on my chair, but now I had to go to the bathroom. I took my pie into the bathroom, which I realize is gross. It sat on my sink for a while, until I realized I hadn't written in my blog for quite some time, since before the ex was an ex. I brought the pie to my bed, where it is now sitting next to me as I type, looking soggy and more like lemon key pie.

But I am writing. In journals and on keyboards. I am creating although it is just me right now, me and my Monday nights and stacks of books and long, dusty brain-hallways. But how sweet and pie-worthy it all is.

—

I am eating my pie now. I am thirsty. But I am going to keep eating.