There were so many samples to choose from. Glistening gems of confection arrayed in perfect rows on smooth, white paper with just the rim of the silver tray beneath edging out from under. They beckoned to Moon with an allure she could not quite place. It all swept over her at once.
“Moon, you’re zoning out.”
“You’re a little glossed over there, honey.”
“Right. Oh. Mom, I’m sorry. I just was … I mean I can’t decide which to try first. I mean, I think, and you may find this a somewhat abstruse observation, granted, but I really think there’s something being said here, by this tray of delectables, that even the most Philistine among us would have to recognize as at least being a strand in what seems to me, not to draw this out or anything, but it seems to me what’s being said is undeniably at minimum…
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