Pineapple Upside Down Cake

Sad, I picture myself cutting the sugary crust with my stainless steel fork. When it cracked apart there'd be a sharp sound of metal against porcelain. The crust, dark brown seeping to deep red, is softer, gooey, nearby.

There is a ring of pineapple against the cold blue of the plate, like the Coliseum when it was new. Inside, I know, blanketed by soft and sugar-permeated angel cake, there are no warriors or lions, but an artificially colored maraschino cherry bleeding a red one sees in crayons, not in food. There used to be a cherry pit, but not anymore.

Somewhere among the bits of wet cake and cloying syrups another semi-soft former liquid traces a trail against the dish: wax, melted from a candle in the shape of a numeral. 7.

The other plates are the same around the blasted table. Water is everywhere around, the smoke has cleared now but everything is scorched black. Boots have trampled the LEGO set, the party hats.

A yellow balloon, still inflated, floats on a sofa cushion.

Ed won't need an 8.

My Ed.