ALL-AMERICAN ANHEDONIA

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This is the distance between Theodore and a table of desserts. What he wants most is the baklava. If he were to close the distance between he and it, this baklava would be his 211^th. Theodore keeps precise count of his many cravings and conquests. You cannot see him, I know, but do not mistake him. Theodore is All-American. His broad shoulders and strong jaw make for an appealing stock photograph advertisement. Can you see him now? Yes, yes. Americana. All-American, they say, and we all know what they mean.

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This is the distance between Theodore and his two sisters who stand on either side of the dessert table. One is more beautiful than the other. The eldest, Bianca, is slim, plain, and delicate. The other has not yet developed breasts or hips and because of this, Theodore rarely regards her presence at all. Theodore often wonders where he fits between these two. They do not touch any of the items that fill the table. For this, he is grateful. Theodore watches the hands of his sisters and imagines them creeping their dainty fingers onto dessert trays. He imagines strangling the smaller one. It is true that the desserts are not his alone. In theory, he can taste a profiterole cocooned between the roof of his mouth and tongue and feel its weight in his stomach. Its sweetness is an authority, and much stronger than truth. He is too far away.

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This is the distance between Theodore and the clock that ticks above the dessert table. In one hour, Theodore is meant to be at practice with his lacrosse teammates Christopher, Franklin, Tomás, and Gregory. All the boys resemble one another and he sometimes forgets their names. You may have missed it, but Theodore has devoured both a strudel and streusel in his short steps. They sit in his stomach dissatisfied and whole. They make him heavy. They make him drowsy, you see. Of course you do. No person could resist. If the other boys were here, they would already be at the table with their hardened grubby fingers stabbing and molesting the key lime pie, fudge, and banana pudding dishes. He is not like them. Theodore takes his time. While others indulge in alcohol and prostitutes and animal slaughter, Theodore only submits to the whims of his sweet tooth. He is weighed down by their commandments, but he must make room. He wants to vomit so that he may have more.

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This is the distance between Theodore and the chocolate-sprinkled brigadeiro that speaks to him and only him and says, eat me. Soothing tones of a lone velvet cacao tongue. Can you hear it? It lifts itself up into the air, its body dusting the floor, and into Theodore’s right eye. It pushes the others down. Down it goes, full-bodied and defiant. It desires to be the last and final object of desire. Theodore is too full now. The table whispers to him with sugar and flour and butter on its breath, you cannot be full. You have not eaten a thing, Theodore. What is this lust?

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This is the distance between Theodore and American apple pie. If he has it, which he will, this will be his 33^rd slice of apple pie. This is peculiar, no? The All-American had never indulged in the patriotic idol until his 16^th year when his housekeeper left a slice at his bedside where he lay in recovery. Theodore’s parents, who live one floor above him, had always held their children at a beggar’s distance. Theodore cannot remember their names. He is sure it is something like Bob and Nancy or Clark and Susan. His mother, let’s call her Nancy because Theodore likes that name, happened to show at one of Theodore’s games. She held a pair of binoculars to her face and wiggled a few fingers at him. It startled him so that he made a false move. Another player hit him and he flew and spun and jerked in the air. The others swarmed like ants across the green field to his aid. She was still seated when he looked up, the binoculars having become her new eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, not in anxiety or dread, but in delight.

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This is the distance between Theodore and a stack of sticky baklava. A susurrus arises from the flaky phyllo wings. Miniscule, light flutters lift its honey-drenched body up and away from the table to deliver itself unto the tip of Theodore’s tongue. It is the ultimate honor. It is speaking, saying his name. A microscopic voice it is, and Theodore looks around to see who else can hear. His sister to the right stands despondently, fingering her phone and looking so deeply into its luminescent screen that her shoulders hunch forward, willing herself into the screen, to be the screen. Be the screen, be the screen, the baklava says. Where there is gravity, there is madness.

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This is the distance between Theodore and his sister Bianca. He is closer now and can hear her hums. He used to enjoy the sound of them vibrating within her narrow throat. She is bored, but not bored enough to look at him. Theodore suspects she hadn’t in a few months.  Babka, cham cham, peach cobbler, and rum balls lay coolly on decorated silver trays. Theodore watches Bianca ignore the desserts he cannot. He imagines stuffing her mouth with crème brûlée. The caramel layer shattering and breaking her poised face, sending tawny shards into the folds of her collared blouse, perhaps even puncturing her lung. She would have to notice him then.

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Theodore is X. There is no more distance between him and anything. Theodore is suspended in a space where everything is simultaneously close and far. Perhaps Theodore has been swallowed and consumed in excessive amounts. Both his hands are sticky and wet. Remnants of caramel, vanilla, pecans, raisins, sugar, and chocolate line his palms. Bianca is yelling his name and he can taste the baklava on his lips. It taste like nothing. Are you happy now? Theodore asks. Behind him are the claps of one hundred men and women. They could be celebrating him. They could be celebrating anyone. They could be celebrating nothing.

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Jasmyne J. Harris is a writer in Washington, DC. Her work is forthcoming in Bayou Magazine and Sharp & Sugar Tooth: Women Up To No Good.