'Happy Birthday' by Martha Lane

The weight of the day keeps her pinned. She could simply wait for tomorrow. Then it
wouldn’t be today. He comes in, freshly showered, smelling of lemons. He doesn’t look
weighed down. Maybe he doesn’t know.

He tugs the covers, ‘What are you doing today?’

‘Cooking.’

‘Great. What’s on the menu?’

‘Birthday cake.’

He lets it hang, suspended in their fog.

She pulls on an old hoodie, pastel paint dried in the cuffs. In the kitchen she weighs
the eggs. In their shells. It’s the secret. Weigh the eggs and the rest will follow. Sugar and
butter creamed until they are the colour of golden curls. Then the eggs. A drop of vanilla.
Flour. While it’s cooking, she whips cream. She whisks until her shoulder aches. First, there
are bubbles. Then the ribbon stage, when paths appear. Paths to nowhere. But then from
nowhere, it’s thick. Then a sigh. The cream is just one whisk closer to butter than it should
be. She breathes. Swallows down her tears. Swallows down everything.

She opens the oven, on instinct – no need for a timer. The fan a roar in the still
kitchen. Sticks the knife in, it slides down so easily. It comes out clean. She smiles. She
weighed the eggs. She watches it on the wire rack. She can’t cut until it’s cool, but she
doesn’t move. She’s afraid if she leaves, she will forget.

She busies herself with strawberries, removing their hats and slicing in half. Melting
chocolate. Dipping. Setting.

Finally, she cuts. She dollops the cream in mountains and places strawberries neatly
around the edge. Like a jigsaw. She cuts herself a slice and goes back to bed. She imagines a
world where she wipes cake crumbs from a smile, and jigsaw boxes aren’t fading in the loft.