“I’m craving butter tarts this morning,” he wrote in a chat window we shared with a friend. We ignored him and continued pasting links to things we found interesting or amusing, without acknowledging his comment.
“None of this has anything to do with butter tarts.”
He was right.
Later, across the street on a morning search for coffee, I saw it. Pastry, folded in on itself at the edges, coming together at the base to form a cup. Contained within, a baked blend of sugar, eggs, butter, poured over dried grapes. Golden brown, nearly overflowing with flavour and sweetness.
I handed over my coffee mug and ordered what I always do. I asked for a butter tart. Into the white paper bag it went, and then back across the street, up seven floors to the office.
I didn’t say anything about butter tarts in our chat.
The butter tart went back into its white paper bag and was stashed away somewhere I wouldn’t forget it.
Time passed. There was no further mention of butter tarts. I worked, I traveled the long way home, I forgot. Late in the evening, I remembered.
I pulled the white paper bag out of my knapsack and handed it over without ceremony. “This is for you.”
“Is this… a butter tart??”
“I love you,” he said.
I don’t like butter tarts.