My roommate opened the door to the small refrigerator in our room. Crouching beside the mini-fridge, he turned to me and asked, “When are we going to throw this out?”
“Throw what out?” I asked.
“This thing. It’s yours.” He pulled out a gray bag with something inside of it.
“Oh, that’s not mine. Isn’t that yours…?” I responded.
“No, it’s not. It’s yours,” he said again.
He pulled out the bag and walked it over to his dresser. Together, we peeled open the bag to see what was inside. It was a cake. A red strawberry juicy cake.
The same cake my Grandmother baked me as a going-away gift in August when I left for college. Five months ago. (AT THE TIME)
SOMEHOW OR ANOTHER THE CAKE MAGICALLY MANAGED TO MAKE ITS WAY BACK INTO OUR FRIDGE AND ONE MONTH LATER, WE FOUND IT AGAIN.
This time, we made sure our half-a-year-old cake made its way into the garbage can. It was hard parting ways but I think it was for the best.
Since then, my grandma baked me another welcome-back cake for Spring Break. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go cut a slice of
bloody meat strawberry cake. I’m just kidding, the blood doesn’t start to form until 3 or 4 months have gone by.