9am. Target.

You always end up here on Saturday morning don’t you.

Saying you’re going to the gym.

But the route you usually take was under construction so you had to go a different way.

Take a sharp left turn away from the interstate and toward the lattice of one way surface streets named after dead presidents.

Lincoln. Taft. Garfield. Taft again because the neighbors petitioned to change the name from Jackson.

Drive under the overpass where the cyberpunks have their Tuesday night rave and the drifter shoot their Wednesday night heroin.

And there you are. The holy of holies. That hallowed red circle hovering above like a biblically accurate angel beckoning “Be not afraid, child. Candles are on sale today.”

The automatic doors gracefully glide open for you, specifically.

Walk past the shopping carts and baskets. You wish to live recklessly.

Start in the back of the store and work your wait to the front.

Gardening Supplies. Hell yeah.

You live in an apartment.

Run your hands along coils of grass green hose.

Feel the weight of the metal spade as you hold it in a firm grip.

Except, it’s not metal at all is it?

No!

It can’t be!

Oh my god!

It’s cake!

Crush the spade in your ungloved hand.

And the hose? Mint cake?

Run to an aisle more familiar to you.

Candles!

Waxy melty pungent candles.

No, bitch.

It’s allllllllllllll cake.

Are you scared?

Your hands are all sticky. Clean yourself up.

Run to the bathroom.

Notice as you flee, the floor is a little….spongey.

Touch the faucet. It’s cool. Metal.

Turn it on. Be not afraid, angel.

Out of the faucet, thick globules of cerulean frosting.

Wake up! Wake up!

Look in the mirror.

You’re cake.

You’re home.

Be not afraid.