Dear Pie...

I miss you, pie: I miss dusting my hands and elbows and forehead in flour, I miss little bites of salty crust, I miss the rhythmic chopping of fruit or stirring of custard. I miss our honeymoon period, pie, those heady days when you and I didn't care about anything but each other. Something has come between us. It's called my thesis. Yes, my thesis: it's not the same as my novel, though it's a relative. Someday I'll submit it, and then we can re-negotiate, pie. I'm truly sorry. I love you, etcetera.

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