tire swing stories

The blueberry muffin is driving me crazy. We're the last two desserts in this display fridge. The paper doily under me is stiff and uncomfortable and my cherry filling is starting to seize up in the cold. 

I'm the tastier one. I'm a slice of Black Forest cake, but I prefer to be called Darryl. I was baked three days ago in a kitchen not too far from this cafe. I had a few hours of peace before he arrived in the fridge. 

"Hey all, I'm a Blueberry Muffin," he said, "and my name is Glen. I'm so happy to be here." 

Happy to be here? Happy to be exposed under these lights and gobbled up by the first human who fancies you? What a nitwit. 

In the beginning it was easy to ignore him. But then one-by-one, the desserts around us were purchased. First, the brownies and chocolate chip cookies. Then, the cake pops and the shortbread. Now it's just the two of us. The reason we're still left? He's made of spelt flour and my frosting is smudged. 

"Darryl?" I hear him say. "Darryl?" 

"What is it, Glen?" 

"Well, I was wondering if you might want to play a game. You know, to pass the time?" 

"A game?" 

"Sure. Like trivia maybe, or I-Spy. I'll go first. 'I spy something white.' Okay, so now you have to guess." 

"What?"

"Guess the thing that is white. Is it my plate? Is it that napkin?"

"I'd just like some peace and quiet if you don't mind."

"Oh. Okay, Darryl. Sure thing. Sorry."

Night comes and the lights of the cafe go out. Without warning, someone slides open the display fridge door and reaches for us. Glen and I are carried to a large green bin and tossed inside. We fall onto a mound of rotting food and the lid above us is snapped shut. In the darkness, I feel Glen beside me, and a rush of gratitude that he is here, after all.

"Glen?" I whisper. 

"Yes?" he answers.

"Do you want to play a game?"