Sarah Leslie

Sarah Leslie

Demands

I want to tie a scarf around my head and someone to lead me to a table and chair. On the table will be a cake, a cake with white frosting and small blue triangles around the circumference. Someone will hand me a fork and I’ll start eating. It will taste better than any cake I’ve eaten before. The fork won’t suffice. I’ll put it down and grab at the cake with my hands, stuffing fistfuls into my mouth. Crumbs will scatter across the table, fall to my lap, the floor. Icing will get caught in the corners of my mouth and stick to my fingers. If the blindfold slips, I will have to push it up with the backs of my hands. Normally, I would mind. Little will remain of the cake. I won’t be bothered by the blindfold, but I’ll regret eating the cake. I’ll wish instead for someone to lay me down, to read me a story, to listen to the rise and fall of their voice.