That fucking panettone. I swear itās haunting me. I think Iāve put it out of my mind, but whenever Iām rummaging around in the back of the cupboard, there it is again. Squatting there, taunting me, smug and full of raisins. Thereās no way on Godās earth that Iām eating that fucking thing.
She took everything of hers, when she went. There wasnāt a trace of her; not a hair on a pillowcase or an earring behind the dresser. All she left me were gaps in the bookshelf and a pain in my chest so sharp I wanted to die.
And of course, that fucking panettone. Sitting out on the kitchen counter, like a big āfuck youā. The only physical remains of a relationship that had spanned two years, three continents and a hundred broken promises. A callous and bready middle-finger, directed at all my dreams and plans for the future.
I donāt know why she left it behind, when she had been so meticulous about scouring every other facet of her existence from my life. It had been a christmas present from some distant cousin of hers and held no particular meaning to either of us, except I guess for being something we had both neglected and ignored until eventually there was no choice but to face it and deal with the consequences.
So I couldnāt throw it away. It was all I had left of her. And eating it was out of the question, seeing as it somehow seemed to embody all that was wrong and toxic about our relationship. Itād probably poison me. So shoved back in the cupboard and forgotten was the only option available.
Some people have curse songs. You know, you hear a song and suddenly youāre reminded so sharply of a particular person, a painful breakup, that youāre almost living it again.
Sometimes I go days, even weeks. Iāve got my life back on track, picked up the pieces. Iām exercising, trying a little online dating, redecorated just enough that the flat isnāt a constant reminder that sheās gone and sheās never coming back. And then Iāll be looking for a bag of flour, or some lentils, and Iāll pull out that fucking panettone and it all comes back and Iām curled up on the kitchen floor, sobbing like a baby and clutching an italian christmas cake like my life depends on it.
I dunno. Maybe itās getting better. I fantasise about destroying it. Pulling it apart in soft, doughy chunks. Laughing and stuffing fistfuls of it into my mouth, or down into the garbage disposal. Flinging it out of the window for the birds to carry away and feed to their babies, dooming them to a lifetime of heartbreak. Maybe one day I will. Or perhaps Iāll get better. Grow up, and just throw it away, unneeded and uncared for.
But until then, Iāll just shove it back into the cupboard, and try to forget about it.
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