A ruminating Bagel, perched atop her suburban fortress, awaiting a man more substantial than the one in her hands.

It’s winter, and I wake up cold. It’s the weather, of course, that hollows my insides until my body feels like an empty coat. There’s nothing else. Nothing at all. It’s just that the sun sets so early. Night falls. My face falls when Mr. Bagel doesn’t come home at the end of the day. I don’t remember what I ate for breakfast. I don’t remember the last time someone made me breakfast. I don’t remember the last time someone held me. I roll over in the middle of the night and feel cold, heartless sheets. Mr. Bagel works so late.

I enter the grocery store in a daze. Somehow, I always end up here –– my empty parts crave excess. I put whatever I want in my basket. I feel the weight of my decisions gradually rise as time passes. Through the bright luminescence of lit windows, the cold air blows through naked trees. I, the empty coat, feel a sort of pity for these poor twisted things, forced to stay outside, alone. To be unable to escape the frozen glare, the apathy of winter, looking wistfully in on the glow of the season’s celebrations.

Days are so short. Nights are so long. Every day I wake up and reach for Mr. Bagel’s tender, moisturized hand. But all I feel are cold sheets and bitter, crushing disappointment. The sun sets and the façade drops. I can’t keep pretending anymore.

I can’t go on, but I go on.

I finish shopping, suddenly tired.

“How are you?” the girl bagging my groceries asks. She’s a small slip of a thing. I can’t bear to see the hope, the artless innocence –– ah, we were all that young once –– in her eyes. I look down. Her name tag says Emily. Suddenly, memories I must forget have just forcefully pushed themselves at the forefront of my mind. “How are you?” the girl bagging my groceries asks. I used to have someone –– someone who cared enough to ask how I was doing.

I make myself look at her. I try to lie, but I turn away from her knowing, kind gaze, clutching desperately at the icing she has forgotten to bag. Careless, as all young girls learn not to be. I put the icing next to my husband’s favorite brand of kale. He’s started working out again, taking up jogging in the mornings with his boss, Amanda. I roll over in the middle of the night and feel cold, heartless sheets. I have grown used to the cold of my bed. I realize, quite suddenly, arm still outstretched to accept my 10 dollars and 59 cents change, that I have grown used to a lack of warmth.

I walk to my car. I drive home. I make a fresh batch of gingerbread cookies.

I frost them with my kids. “I’m going to give the daddy cookie a big smile!” says my son. I can’t remember the last time my husband smiled at me. Days turn into weeks. I am making gingerbread cookies with my daughter. “The mommy cookie broke,” she sighs in disappointment. Don’t worry about her. She’s learning to pick up the pieces.

Anyway, here’s the gingerbread cookie recipe:

1. Buy a big block of gingerbread

2. Cut out large chunks that vaguely resemble people

3. Frost as necessary. Attempt to enjoy.