Crazy, Drop, Eclair

“Bob! Drop that eclair! Are you crazy?”

Two dim light sources glowed in the kitchen: one was the digital clock on the coffee pot showing 3:05am, and the other was the refrigerator light. Grace, Bob’s wife, watched as the pastry reversed course and moved away from her diabetic husband’s mouth and back into the refrigerator.

She’d suspected that making baked goods for her children’s school event was risky, that he’d try to sneak a surreptitious snack. She was disappointed in herself for making them, for tempting him. She’d never do it again.

“C’mon Bob. Let’s go back to bed.”