Cheddar Cheese

Wendy Boulding

Tepid blood is drizzling down and flowing toward the palm of my hand. Like my quest for intense passion, I fiercely clutch the handle of a white paring knife and I realize for the first time where my loyalties lie.

I would never bleed for anyone.

My childhood bed had once been as soft as a cloud of baby powder. Tonight I felt how the endlessness of disappointment had turned it into a slab of stone. A man I barely know is sleeping on it now. His hungry whispers evoked my savage touches. At first I scraped at the shield that protects his heart as I moaned while fire jetted through my arched back. Then I dug my fingernails into his chiseled muscles wanting to steal any love his soul may be concealing. I discovered quickly that was nothing there for me to take.

And now I stand barefoot in my kitchen, a room constructed of stainless steel logic. I find solace in the orange rectangle of cheddar cheese standing at attention in front of me. The chill from the refrigerated brick lingers upward and cools my chin. I can see the gentle curves of the solid mass I count on to make me feel better. The pieces I had cut before the knife sliced my finger are obediently waiting to please my salivating mouth. Heavy with comfort and memories, I know the cheddar cheese will bring me the rapture I am yearning for.

I would never bleed for anyone, but I would for cheddar cheese.

Copyright ©1998 Wendy Boulding. All Rights Reserved.

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July, 1998 Issue #27

256 Words

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