Raspberry ribbon cheesecake.
I made you raspberry ribbon cheesecake because I knew you loved it. On the first day of school, in Mrs. Edward’s creative writing class, what was your response to the ice break: What is your favorite dessert? Most people were dull with answers like chocolate cake or vanilla ice cream. But, no, you were different. You chose a dessert which I later had to look up. So unique. I knew you were the one for me. So while I was in the checkout line, buying 24 ounces of sour cream, two lemons, and a dozen eggs, I pondered your reaction to my thoughtful gift. My professed love. I ruminate on this as I bake the graham cracker crust and whisk the creamy batter and pipe the raspberry filling and peddle my bolstered-up, baby pink cruiser to your home, attentively placing the cardboard box that held your cake in the pannier.
Once arriving at your house, to your intimidating pine-green door with its rusted golden knob, I take a deep breath in, allowing air to reach every crevice of my lungs before letting my presence be known. The door opens, and there you are, kind and considerate as always. You invite me in, just as planned, and ask what I am holding as we enter your living room. I made a repulsive grin before positioning the box on your coffee table and steadily raised the lid, revealing the scarlet and custard-colored cake inside, which read I LOVE YOU.
I was overfilled with joy at my displayed affection until I looked at you. There was something wrong, with your expression, with your movements, with your words. Something was wrong, but then it was right because I remember cutting into the cheesecake with the raspberry filling spilling out.
But the thrill left me as I heard your begging, your wailing, and then saw that the batter was skin, the filling was blood, and the cake was you.