There on her counter, sitting on one of her pretty china
cake plates, was a big golden muffin, glistening with sugar. One of her glass
bowls sat upside down over it like a dome.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted the bowl. Leaned down, took a
little sniff.
Blueberry. He’d found the blueberries she’d bought the other
day and used them in the muffin. Though given its perfect proportions it seemed
almost sacrilegious, she broke off part of the top, sampled it.
It tasted every bit as perfect as it looked.
He’d baked her a muffin. From scratch.
The Collector
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“The muffin, Luke.”
“The meaning of the muffin?” God, she smelled good, and he
realized the scent of her mixed with the yeasty smell of bread
would fuse
together in his head.
“Its meaning, in fact entire purpose, is: Eat me. Did you?”
The Collector
