Ironically

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Heaven is a dark and quiet kitchen at midnight
and a loaf of brand new raisin bread staring at you.

It is a dark and quiet kitchen and the softness of bread and the nearness of the butter.

If I open the fridge door and bathe myself in its warm light, I will certainly smother two pieces in the cold butter and take a huge, huge, huge bite.

And then another and another until I have devoured the whole piece.

And slip up the stairs as though it never happened.

Heaven is a whole loaf of raisin bread to myself. And time to eat it without worry, without fear.

Hell is a diet. Because that is what single women do. You cut carbs and watch your figure in order to catch a man, a promotion, the side eye from every woman your age who is already married with two babies on each hip. That’s success, right? Making other people jealous.

Who cares about having a happy home when I can still fit into my high school jeans? Who wants security or love or hope that tomorrow will not be as hard because someone is there to share it with me? Who wants that when I could miserably and hungrily whittle my waist to wasp like proportions. That is the real goal, right? Who needs a wedding ring on my finger when my neck is the size of a bracelet.

Jewelry is as jewelry does.

But nothing rings truer than the sound of the fridge door clicking open, so you can grab the butter. And toast the bread. And eat without worrying if it means you will never have a mate. Or a child. Or a home of your own.

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