Cheesecake Yurt

We drove through what I thought was Winnipeg, or perhaps a semblance thereof—maybe a suburb of Saskatoon, Fargo, or even Minneapolis. The exact locale seemed irrelevant, cloaked in a cold that forced the car's interior into an absurdly high heat, besieging my torso, face, and seat with bursts of warmth from the vents, the seat heater turned to its utmost intensity.

The landscape before us stretched endlessly—a pristine, undulating sheet of snow devoid of any discernible landmarks. Homes punctuated this vista, emerging like fold-out tabs from a pop-up storybook—modern abodes that looked like pastel milk cartons, devoid of heritage, residing on the fringes of the urban sprawl, designed for the upper middle class with coffers ample enough for luxuries but insufficient for grand estates in the likes of Tuxedo or River Heights— homes void of privacy, bereft of shutters, flaunting ambitious open-concept layouts, trendy yet sterile, and of questionable robustness.

Defying the seatbelt's restraining grasp, I casually tucked it behind me, a subtle act of rebellion against its imposition. My husband's arrogance propelled him to accelerate recklessly. Abruptly, an imposing moose loomed into view, and in an instant, I found myself unceremoniously ejected from the confines of the car, inflicting an instantaneous, searing agony through nerve and bone. My breath crystallized upon expulsion, congealing my very eyelashes. A crimson pool formed, thick and syrupy, then a dark ruby encased in ice.

Morphine and Percocet rendered me defenseless, stripping away control. Floating and tranquilized, I found myself at the mercy of a man's extraordinary care—far beyond the standard hospital routine. He lingered in my room, sharing snippets of his life, tending to me with an intimacy that felt deeper than the hospital walls could contain.

His attentiveness was remarkable—slipping socks onto my feet with a delicate touch, darting into my room at the slightest shift in my vital signs.

When administering the morphine, he moved deliberately, speaking in hushed tones, creating an inexplicable familiarity. His closeness felt like a reunion, each touch sparking a tremor within me. He tirelessly sought crutches and patiently taught me how to use them. In moments of faltering, he steadied me, murmuring, "That's why I'm here."

In his presence, a strange pull emerged, an unspoken understanding reflected in our exchanged glances. But as he promised to return, an abrupt discharge robbed us of our goodbye. Exiting the room, as another nurse wheeled me toward the elevator, she asked me if I wanted to say goodbye to anyone. All I could do was lie. I lied, I lied, I lied. How did she seem to grasp what remained unsaid?

My husband arrived with pained eyes, a weight between us unspoken but felt. We drove wordlessly to a colossal bakery in Winnipeg's Exchange district, a haven crafting a bevy of Japanese and Korean treats. Without a word exchanged, we ascended a colossal spiral staircase fashioned from rolled steel plates and tubing.

During the ascending arc, we glimpsed at machines behind metal grills crafting delights—melon pan, anpan, hotteok, Soboro bread, hodu gwaja—filling the air with toasty, candied scents—buttery, sugary, and nutty. Sixties and seventies Japanese city pop blared, each note reverbing through the edifice, celestially canorous. We were the only ones there.

The spiraling ascent reversed, and as we descended, warm droplets of molasses and honey-kissed our faces, our tongues sticking out, sweetness coating our skin. At journey's end, we queued for a paper bag packed with hodu gwaja, stepping into the sun-drenched streets, skin ropy no longer, and the winter dissipated. Hand in hand, we wandered to our dwelling.

This house wasn't ordinary—it was a behemothic Basque cheesecake, its walls crackled and charred, a mosaic of caramelized patches. Inside, we tasted the creamy walls, and left impressions on the gooey, velvety floor. Within this Basque tupik lay an old RCA television streaming black and white Turner Movie Classics, a faux Noguchi table with a half-empty ashtray, and a bowl of corn nuts.

Upon a worn Roche Bobois bubble sofa, my husband and I nuzzled and Eskimo kissed, despite the sofa’s tattered state, tufts of cotton bursting from the seams. As we embraced, another figure reclined, resembling X or the male nurse from the hospital, dozing and drooling. Oblivious, my husband bundled close, and I, content, didn't alert him to the bodach on the sofa's edge.

Then the moss took over the cheesecake walls. Crawling up from the floor. Lichen followed, gray and green.

A damp, earthy scent filled the air. A new accord with lingering sweetness.

My husband’s face blurred. Softened by the moss creeping up his arm. Across his shoulder. Until it touched my skin too.

We became barely distinguishable from the lichen-covered cushions. Swallowed by green.