StanleyWheeler

I saw a boy today. I saw a boy eating bread. Today I saw a boy eating bread like I've never before seen anyone eat bread. He ascended to an entirely separate plane of existence as he consumed the bread with a passionate fervor usually reserved for far more complex fare. It was an intimate moment between lovers.

The eight-year-old boy began by opening the transparent zip-lock bag, placing his nose inside the bag and inhaling deeply, savoring the smell captured within the sleeve of plastic. The promise of flour-fueled ecstasy flooded his mind. He removed one of the two white slices and held it to his nose, again inhaling the fragrance of baked nirvana. Taking the slice in both hands, he tore three-fourths of the crust away and shoved it into his mouth. While he chewed that tasty crust, he tore the final remnant of the light brown cover from the bread segment and sent it to join its kin amid the marching grind of his dental mill.

Before the last of the crust had been swallowed, he tore the tender, pallid flesh of the portion that remained. He stuffed the torn bit of loaf into his mouth, boosting the transcendental rise with each champ of his teeth into the impotent comestible. He rent a small piece from the diminished slice and popped it quickly into his mouth. He ripped away another morsel and tucked it to his mouth before bringing the last of the slice to his lips and over the pink threshold. Nothing existed beyond the bread and the pleasure of its consumption.

He removed the second slice from the baggie. Raising it to his nose, he drew in the hearty perfume, letting it swirl among the olfactory sensors to bump the supernal experience even higher. Space and time fell away. As he once again ripped away three-fourths of the crust and plunged it into his mouth, the union of bread and boy in the expanse of existence began. The remnant of the crust followed quickly. Tearing, biting, and chewing the soft, roasted dough without relent or remorse sent him soaring beyond his own existence to the highest dimension where nothing but bread, its odor, texture and taste--the ultimate ambrosia--could be conceived or believed.

When the last pliant fragment had passed from his mouth and been sent to repose with the earlier-consumed chunks in a well-filled belly, he raised the transparent plastic sleeve to his face. He took a final, deep drag, pulling the very memory of the bread's lingering scent from the bag to become a part of his own essence. It had been good bread. It had been inestimably good bread, and he was glad.