She Loves Me

Entry by: Godai41

26th February 2015
She Loves Me

Every one of my species, ok, sub-species if you must have it so, knows when she loves him. Even in the smallish city I come from, zillions of my fellows wait in the intense heat, heavy days of rain, and our version of winter, for some exotic damsel to stop, stare, and strive to hide how she is totally enamored of my variegated surface and the exotic cologne I or someone cooked up for myself. Yes, we say to each other in our very brief span staring up from the table we sprawl around, she loves me. And why shouldn’t she love me? If she really follows her passion, with me she will experience a sensation in her inner being, yes, a taste, she may only have dreamed up or imagined existed. You may say I have my darkish, even ugly side. Perhaps. By now, though, most of you must understand that looks don’t mean everything and sometimes not anything. I sometimes look like a campfire that used too much charcoal and sometimes as pale as a gray dawn. You know, though, how she can fight when she really yearns for and even must have me. I call that love. She loves me and meanders out each morning to see me in the market in the alley in the northern side of Tatung road in Tainan.

She loves me even more than she loves him. How could she help herself? I’m so shapely, bumpy in a friendly way, hard to take but soft and full of light inside. I truly am one for all seasons, and I make my appearance in a dignified but shapely way from Fall to Winter, into Spring, and, yes, I even survive the so-called summer where I live. I can imagine, although I don’t know, that even Virginia Woolf, betimes, sought me mornings after parties that somehow never satisfied host or guests. Yes, I’ve been around a good bit. Speaking of bit, I have my rough side, and yet, even that knotty surface, manages to draw biting looks. If she could, she would touch me and test her love for me. I reside just a quick right turn heading east as you reach Belsize Crescent.

I’m here to tell you bluntly but in a mellow kind of blunt way that she loves me much more than she loves either of the two you have met. How do I know? you ask. I know. Je ne sais pas how. I just know. For one thing, I don’t dwell outside in markets and on outdoor stands like those two. My creators protect my sometimes soft, cracking, some would say, cranky—ha ha—self inside safe from the elements, and those elements include loving the she thieves who would abscond with me if they could. That’s how much they desire, yes love, me. Even with my semi-crunchy outer self that belies the multiple flavors my soul holds for those who come to love me more than any of my compatriots is loved, she seeks me out on dim, drizzly, morns. By early afternoon she has revealed her love and run off with me, and those who late in the day pursue me depart with cavernous but barren guts, empty handed and empty hearted.

She loves me, tender crepe that I am from La Maison des Tartes, more than she could ever ever love that churlish Tainan scallion pancake or the harsh NW 3 scone. Ha!