Cake

a tiered tray sits filled with dainty, detailed cakes and cups full of airy mousse. a laced glove reaches out and plucks one - mille-feuille, perfectly layered with feathery phyllo sheets and iced in a fine herringbone pattern. your eyes follow the dusty rose pink covered fingers to their prize, and watch as it is bitten into - a bit too soft and elegant for a dessert so full of papery layers. seized by jealousy, you take a petit four, vanilla cake robed in a translucent glaze. there is a shimmer to it and tiny pearls dotting hand-piped roses which you hesitate to bite into. finally, teeth sink into the sweet cake, as your mouth is overwhelmed with buttery, angel sponge.

the air smells of freesia, and the pristine ivory tablecloth lifts slightly in the warm breeze like a content lover's sigh. bergamot tea swills lazily in its ornamented teacup, and you cannot help but disturb the tiny linden flowers with the equally tiny silver spoon before taking a sip. in the moment between the faint tink-tink of spoon against porcelain, and the polite sip of tea, you observe the white camelias and pale pink peonies that dot the round table, accenting the trays of savory and sweet. a small pot of clotted cream sits untouched, a porcelain dish filled with soft cubes of turkish delight. your companion giggles around a mouthful of mille-feuille as you feel a vague sense of detachment. who are you, anyway? she has no face, but it is easily imaginable, like room-warmed ganache perhaps.

the vanilla cake lingers in your mouth long after you've swallowed, and you inhale the poached pear air. you will remain in the tartouffe creme dream a little longer.