The box read: "Synonym Rolls +2". Liz peered through the flimsy plastic window into the package, they appeared to be regular cinnamon rolls. What an unfortunate typo she thought, as she selected the best looking one, and sat down with her coffee.
It had been hard to enjoy anything since Gene had left, quite abruptly deciding that their relationship of 15 years wasn't working out for him. She had come home to boxes stacked in the foyer, and a tight-lipped half smile on her lover's face. It had been nice, hadn't it?
She was going to enjoy this, here and now. A fluffy pastry with too much icing, prescription filled for a broken heart. Fifteen years is a long time to give someone, she would do her best not to give any more. Head space for rent.
Her thoughts really started to go wild as she savored her treat, the velvety warmth of coffee perfectly accompanying it. "A most spectacularly crafted baked good!" she proclaimed to her greyhound, who dozed on the leather couch nearby.
The outburst confused her, but then again, grief is weird. She flipped open her work laptop on the marble countertop, looking beyond at Lasagna with jealousy. What she wouldn't give just to set her work aside and curl up with her canine friend.
"Alas, I must endeavor to fulfill my professional requirements." once again the words poured forth from some unknown source. With a furrowed brow, Liz dove into her work, determined not to give life to any sort of nonsense. She had done quite enough of that already of late.
Around midday, Liz noted the time with a sigh. Closing her computer with a steadying breath, she glanced at her phone expectantly. Any moment now, it would ring out to announce it was 1pm. Her mother would breathlessly sweep in through the speaker, hell bent on disrupting her sense of calm.
Lasagna must have sensed her distress, he lifts his sleepy head to meet her gaze. "You don't have to answer." his eyes say. "I'm sufficiently aware Lasagna," She responds to the silent dog, "the reiteration of personal choice is logically followed by a moral dilemma." she pinches the bridge of her nose between manicured fingertips.
"Were I to forego my social interactions with my maternal parent, happenchance may dictate that no one fills that requirement." the sentence tangles in her teeth, was she having some kind of mental break? Before she had too much time to worry over it, her phone lit up with the image of a handsome woman in her late 70's, as it began to ring.
"Good afternoon, Mo-" Liz is cut off brutally by a verbal onslaught. Her mother has heard about the breakup, oh no... who told her, and why do they hate me so much, Liz wondered.
"Elizabeth, really, I'm just at a loss for words." she dives right in, her mother was the only person who used her full name. "Gene is so HANDSOME, whatever in the world possessed you to allow things to fall apart?" mother demands, although she doesn't wait for an answer before continuing.
"I told you dear, years ago, you have to give men a little space." she stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "And the Pilates, you only kept up with that for a few months dear, your waistline..." a buzzing fills Liz's ears, and she hears herself interrupt her mother.
"It is entirely possible that my performance was lacking in some arbitrary category that Gene had." Liz says briskly, "However, I find that I am far more substantial than the representation of a checked box." her voice is becoming impassioned, but she doesn't care.
"I find much greater concern in the discovery that Gene has been lending aspects of his anatomy to his secretary for the last year!" Liz concludes with a bang. A long period of silence answers from the other end, they seemed to be equally frazzled by the origin of that tirade.
After hanging up from the briefest conversation she had ever had with her mother, Liz reeled in the bizarre nature of what she had been experiencing all morning. It was time to conduct some testing.
Clearing her throat, Liz focuses. I will say "I'm ordering pizza for lunch" she thinks. Prepping her lips as if she plans to attempt a tongue twister, she wets them with a stern look in her eyes.
"I shall Precure a pie for my mid-afternoon repast." bursts forth from her lips instead. Okay, seriously? Something wasn't right. She strode over to the countertop to examine the cinnamon roll box once more, this time she noticed the fine print.
Synonym Rolls, +2 to natural speaking ability. Fails on a Nat 12. Will not stack. Efficacy: 12 hours
Blinking, shaking her head, and spinning around didn't seem to change the message. What bodega had she bought these from, she wondered. Who baked these mysterious goods, and did the buyers have any idea what they were reselling in these carboard boxes?
"Isn't that some bull defecation?" she asked Lasagna, who provided no opinion either way.
