Smooth, Warm, Creamy

Loyal

I wait anxiously for you to return, to meet me again. It's become a regular occurrence by now, for us to meet like this. Every Monday night at 8pm, in the company of nobody but the deep silver moon, the mother of the sky, turning pirouettes for no applause. Yet at a second glance, one is able to see an orb with the company of the sun, reflecting light, not silver, but with a buttermilk glow. She is surrounded by her children, the stars, as they watch over every heart that beats steady and true. My heart, though cold and constructed of steel, beats strongly as I think of our rendezvous, and as the only one in my mind is you.

Only twice since our first meeting have we not met at exactly 8pm on a Monday night. The first, when I had been tucked away behind Pickles, and you couldn't see me. You had to settle for my close friend Lentil that night, much to your dismay. I watched from my hiding spot with a sense of longing, and a burning feeling inside me. My heart ached as I watched you and Lentil together, yet your misery almost made it worth it. And the second, when O'd been placed on the wrong shelf, sat amongst Dill and Garlic and the like rather than with Chickpeas and Tuna. But you refused to give in. After what happened the first time, you knew I was there, but that I may have simply been put in the wrong place. You searched for me when I wasn't in my usual spot, front and centre of the third shelf, and when you finally found me, you held me close. Kept me to your chest, right next to your beating heart, and comforted me. You caressed my label gently and told me that everything would be okay, that you had me now and that I was safe. And I believed you. Trusted you.

My heart began to pound undeniably loudly as I heard your familiar footsteps, the gentle sliding of your socks against the kitchen tile making me feel all warm inside my steel prison. Then came your face - your eyes and their bluish, brownish, greenish colour - in front of me, light filling the space around me as you opened the wooden door to my home. Your same expression of mock confusion, bottom lip clasped between your teeth, as you pretended to scour the shelves for something. I knew, you did too, that you were just stalling for time, trying to tease me. You always were rather audacious.

But as you finally reached your arm out to grab me, I noticed that your angle was slightly off. I wasn't too worried though - you were never the best at estimating where things were. But then, something odd happened. You didn't grab me. No, you instead grabbed... Chicken Noodle Soup. Your knuckles just grazed my label as you did, took him instead of me. Why?

Why would you come to our rendezvous point, at our usual time, with the same expression that I was so used to seeing, and not take me out of the cupboard?