Midori, sans liqueur.

But only when I realize there’s no one sneaking into the kitchen to get batter from the bowl while my back is turned, no horde of boys to descend upon my two perfectly baked rum banana cakes, no sisters asking me for the recipe or asking me to bake another one for x and y event next week.

I am pretty sure that if I end up single in old age, I won’t be a cat lady but a cake lady, surrounded by perfected, finished cakes that no one eats.

The good news is my apartment smells like vanilla, rum, flour, and sugar, and it’s such a happy smell with only the best of memories attached.