::one morsel, small, of Olympia days and nights::

I was hungry there. The rain crept through like the mold in the seams of the walls, and I hungered. Big fat fresh breads and strong coffee. Butter over a warmer, and crème brulee beside. I wanted no dinner, only the appetizers and desserts. Instead, I often settled for cigarettes, Oly stubbies after brunch at the forgotten café in the marina, the party jello in the shape of a dark red human heart on the second floor of an apartment in Tumwater, a bad rice dish that would flower green and then black in my refrigerator. I hungered for something adult, for the ways of the adult world I was just barely stepping into, mouthing the words I was learning and feeding from, all the while hungry for something else, like the pan-melted Mexican chocolate my Gemini lover fixed me, or the garlic cloves tight in the bread slices that got soft and seductive in the oven, or the soup that was as hearty and full as the girl I was falling in love with; or the cookie, smart, barely crumbly, holding together with proper ingredients, crunchy, sweet, that I was becoming.