Pasta Libre

It had the warmth of my Mum’s home-cooking.
The slimy texture of those first-year student meals; the bite of cold night air, huddling round a campfire.
It satisfied the ravenous rower, nervous harpist, and now this hungry girl.

It’s been a long time coming over that carb-heavy hill. I promised pasta a plate at the dinner table long ago. Anonymous made endless false promises and moved milestones. Then Ellie remembered a promise she made to herself: when I reach 50kg, I’ll eat pasta. When I run again, I’ll eat pasta.
10 months and 6 months late, respectively: of course her excitement was beginning to boil over.

I tentatively picked up a packet down the whole-food aisle, and sized up the calories. It’s only pasta, Ellie.

A delicate twirl of wheat once wound round Anonymous’ little finger.
Now, the bland taste of folded fears.
Now mine, all mine.

Hasta pasta x

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‘Pwoah

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