A secret pleasure

A secret pleasure is sitting in the coffee shop on brown squishy sofas with generous square arms (the sofa’s not mine), a large skinny decaff latte and a chocolate twist. A chocolate twist is permitted once a week but only if I go without breakfast because then it cancels out some of the naughtiness. I open my mouth as wide as I can before slowly, slowly, delicately biting down and I can’t decide if I want it to unravel with the bite so that the chocolate seeps out of the sides or whether it is better if it stays intact and bursts open on my tongue. As it does burst on my tongue, my mouth fills with saliva, the chocolate filling warms and I wish I could make it grow in my mouth without having to rely on the next bite for satisfaction. Before the next bite, I run my tongue around my lips to savour the icing sugar, not so much of a moustache as the white face paint around a clown’s mouth. The icing sugar is fine and intensely sweet, sandwiched between the neutrality of my tongue and upper lip. I try to hang back a little, take a sip of coffee. It’s good that my coffee is large because the oversized cup needs two hands to hold it. But the coffee’s hot and in any case, I should save it for when the chocolate twist is all gone and I want to wash away the longing for the next mouthful by pouring coffee down after it. I circle a moistened fingertip around the plate gathering any delicate flakes of pastry or drips of chocolate but it’s no good. I have to take my second bite and I’m aware that it’s falling away.

They think I’m in Sainsbury’s.