Kelsey-AN
The thin crispy wafer was all she needed in the morning. It’s beige, golden succulent flakes fell away beneath her teeth and crushed to a fine, delicious powder. It was at the table every morning, and every morning she had at least three. Dipped in syrup, drizzled with chocolate, plain, it didn’t matter.
The obsession had all started when she was six. Her father had placed a plate of them in front of her.
"Here, doll," he said, one of the crisp flakes hanging in his mustache, "Have one. Fresh from the bakery."
Into her mouth it went and out the door her father left that night.