Brunch at the Rapheal

And then there was Sunday
brunch at the Raphael. . .

Eggs Florentine

baking powder biscuits

butter and raspberry jam.

Until then . . .until the jam

I thought I was fine

I was not

the last few days, months,

had been exhausting leaving me
limp lame irregular and spiritless.
I was nothing.

They brought me jam in a rock
crystal jar—raspberry jam that spread on hot buttered biscuits like warm silk. It was blatantly, quite unmistakably so, sweet. Sweet red raspberry jam.

I was stale—the jam had zing.

The jam shimmered with vigor. Where, for heaven’s sake, was my vim and vinegar?

I know you think it silly

but I was saved

in the presence of others just like me

I scuttled to the front of the room

where I had to admit

I admitted

my name is Lissa

and I need more. Much
much more of this
brilliant sensuously sweet raspberry jam!