Heaven on a Spoon

I can go two days without. On the third, I start craving.

As dinner ends, I shoot puppy dog eyes the length of the table, broadcasting my desire, and my husband wilts, then gives in, because after all, it’s his addiction, too.

Taut nerve ends relax into the alchemy of butter and cream and sugar, poured over frozen, creamy decadence spackled with chewy dark yumminess.

There must be a penance to be paid for heaven on a spoon. It will come tomorrow morning, when I step on the scales.