Today’s writing prompt says:
Write about taking a bite.
bird_line

Somewhere in between me starting the rhubarb pie and taking the last slice, I caught one.

It wasn’t anything like the first. It wasn’t bad, but it just wasn’t great like the first one. The crust was too doughy, and by now, the lumps of rhubard, strawberries and other solid pie foods were just sugary bits of mushy food. And the sauce filling – just a thick, red sugar sauce with a consistency that was slightly thicker than spit.

I was more than full by the time I had finished one-quarter of the pie that was probably meant for a family. I imagined the people who had bought the pies on top and below the one I was killing off. They probably had a nice bottle off wine in their bags from the liquor store – a nice white.

That person in that family was going to warm up the pie before cutting single-person servings of the pie. No doubt, it would be at least 50% better than what I was eating even though it was the same pie. But that one would be eaten around friends and family, with the wine, and after a satisfying meal.

They would savor the first bite they took. And the second and third.

The first bite I took was about filling a hole masquerading as hunger. My first piece was the appetizer. I was now on the third course – whatever was inbetween the main meal and dessert.

No, my first bite was very different than this one I caught in total conciousness. I released it down my throat with another bite poised at my lips.

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