I’m standing in the kitchen considering my options while I sample another one of the individual Hersheys chocolates that my housemate brought back from her trip to Phuket. There are several different types in the bowl which seem to be named after affectionate exchanges, but I can never pick the hugs from the kisses. All I know is that I tend to favour the darker ones, as my housemate thinks that they may be inclined to give her nightmares. She’s told me of them several times quite vividly, but all of the details escape me bar the feeling that I was glad they weren’t mine.
Having gorged myself on several sweets by this time, the urge to brew a coffee overpowers me. Putting the kettle on I can already picture my fate. The taste of chocolate makes my mouth cry out for the company of coffee, but I know that as soon as the warmth runs over my chocolate covered tastebuds, they will crave for more chocolate. It is a vicious cycle, and I am powerless against its will.
While I wait for the water to boil I try to tidy up a bit, and having just finished a book of short stories by Chekov, I place it neatly on the shelf between Camus and Conrad. A tiny ripple of thought bubbles up in my head, and I feel glad that I’m slowly chipping away at the mountain of books that I hope to read. They are surely greater in number than the days that I have left to walk the Earth, but I hope to keep up my efforts none the less.
The kettle boils over, and I resign myself to my chocolaty fate.