The crumpled plastic wrap finds the trash bag as the foot shifts from the gas to the brake, and the Jeep glides to a gentle stop. In the red glow of the traffic light one of the hands releases the plate and reaches out, stretching toward the cup holder, where it finds no cup.
The fork goes to work with energy, with gusto even, tearing off a golden chunk, icing clinging to its side. The motion is not dainty, but workmanlike, shoveling the delicious cargo toward a mouth waiting in smiling anticipation. The golden, frosted chunk is crammed into the mouth and as it chews the smile widens at the taste.
The fork returns to the plate, then to the mouth. And again. The eyes above the mouth close in an ecstasy of sugary appreciation, fork shoveling, teeth chewing, tongue probing the masticated mess for any missed bits of icing. A sound escapes around the fork during yet another moist and delicious delivery, low and fluid, almost musical.
Another sound, a sudden, harsh counterpoint to the musical moan of culinary appreciation.
The eyes pop open. The light is green. The foot shifts back from the brake to the gas and the Jeep begins to move as the fork-wielding hand rises in a wave directed at the car behind me. The mouth opens, and an unintelligible sound falls out, barely making it past the sugary mass filling the maw, sticking to teeth and tongue.
"Soghee, doo," which, of course, means 'Sorry, dude!'
Yes, I am eating leftover birthday cake while driving, and it is so good.
Talk to you later!