29 is the worst number. There is something off, terrible about 29. Maybe because it is a prime number. Inauspicious. A lonely number. Goosebumps under the skin.
You woke up with a terrible craving. Had a hard-on, nocturnal penile tumescence as the doctors call it. And a terrible desire for cake. Lemon ice cream sandwich cake. Your partner rolled over on the bed. The hard-on died. 29 was the worst number.
You walked to the kitchen and stood in front of the coffee machine. This was an ancient daily ritual. The point was to stare at the machine for a very long time, unmoving. It was not about the coffee, but rather the coalescing of time into a small, unmoving black dot at a point somewhere right above the black plastic button START. You could stand this way for a very long time. Time lost itself there. And what a craving for cake.
The cake called for vanilla cookies sharpened with lemon zest, layered in a mattress of ice cream. There was no more cream in the fridge. You did not have an ice cream maker. The 20-lb bulk bag of flour had about an ounce left of flour left at the bottom. 29 was a cakeless number.
You walked back to the bed, and lay down. Your partner got up to take a piss. You heard the splash of urine against the sides of the bowl. He flushed. You heard him walk to the kitchen, and start up the coffee machine. You lay on the bed, awake. You did not think of cake.