by Alisson Feijoo
When I told my sister Berry I was going to Pieglass, she wrinkled her nose like I’d said I wanted to join a cult. She said, “I’m too old to be playing with destiny.”
I didn’t push. She used to believe in magic. Now, she believes in recycling.
Since she married Alfredo—bland Alfredo, Alfredo the human form of overcooked spaghetti without salt, Alfredo who probably hums while folding laundry—they have a shared Amazon cart filled with eco-friendly candles and cruelty-free socks.
He works for some nonprofit that “does the good.” Yeah, sure. Like that pays the rent. Then he goes around dropping quotes about how money’s an illusion. And all I can think is: then where’s my $220, wizard?
I think Berry pities me. Like I’m the bruised apple at the bottom of the barrel, soft and strange. She forgets she was once soft and strange too.
Maybe she’s scared I’ll find something better. Or maybe she just thinks I’ll end up alone, curled like a shrimp under the weight of all my wanting.
Anyway.
Pieglass opens at 9:00.
Despite the name, this place is more like a fortune told through frosting. You take a bite, and if the pie likes you, you see your future love.
You have to make a reservation. You have to believe just enough.
Berry was out. So I asked Honey.
Honey is a light. She’s funny, fast with words, and kind in a way that doesn’t show its teeth. She’s sweet, yeah. But not the candy kind. The kind that lingers. The kind that heals. The kind your grandma swears fixes everything. But sometimes, I feel like she ends up with all the wrong flavors—like trying to pair her with clam chowder and expecting it to make sense.
I texted her the morning before, casually—Wanna hang out tonight? Thought we could do something fun, just us.
What I didn’t say was that “something fun” meant standing in line at Pieglass with me while I chased destiny through dessert.
I was gonna ask if she’d wait in line, maybe even go in with me. But I didn’t. I figured if I got her there, I’d work my charm.
She replied the next morning via text:
Hey Hazel. I’m so sorry. Covering next shift. Gotta get the boys to jiu-jitsu. Raincheck?
Her husband, Frosty. Don’t get me started, another whipped cream man. Floats on top, disappears under pressure. A dreamer with no savings account.
But she carries his weight and calls it love.
That won’t be me.
I’ve got a plan.
And it starts with the pie.
~~~~~
I went alone.
People stared. I could feel their eyes like cold coins against my skin.
I didn’t mind. Let them stare.
I waited outside, biting my cuticle until it bled a little.
The bell over the Pieglass door jingled like wind chimes in a candy store. Sweet, almost fake.
Inside, it did not smell like cinnamon.
It smelled like warm spinach. Like wet carpet. Like hospital food after it’s gone cold.
But I was already here.
And I had nothing left to lose.
Behind the counter appeared a woman with a beehive like a bird’s nest dipped in varnish and no eyebrows to speak of. Her name tag said MARIANNE, but the letters flickered like a dying neon sign trying to tell a lie.
“You’ve come for the pie,” she said.
Not a question.
I nodded. Couldn’t speak.
Marianne pulled back a curtain of velvet ropes, and I stepped into a room that looked like a séance had collided with a children’s tea party. Tiny chairs circled a doll-sized table with chipped porcelain teacups and plates too dainty for actual food. Teddy bears, plastic ponies, and a disturbingly lifelike baby doll sat politely in their seats as if waiting for someone to summon the spirit of snack time.
The lighting was dim, flickering from candles nestled in what looked like antique sippy cups. And looming over it all, crookedly on the wall, hung a massive portrait of Queen Elizabeth—grinning, tea in hand, like she was both guest of honor and omniscient hostess.
There it was.
At the center of the tiny tea table, nestled between a headless teddy bear and a unicorn with one eye scratched out, sat perfectly on a porcelain plate rimmed in tiny pink hearts: the key lime pie.
Too perfect. Like someone whispered it into being. It glowed faintly, green like envy or old ghosts.
“Take a bite,” said Marianne. “When the vision is right, finish the pie. Only then will it be real.” Before I could ask what that meant, she swept out of the room, velvet ropes falling back into place behind her. I was alone.
I sat down.
The fork was heavier than it should have been.
First bite:
Sugar. Wind. Light.
My vision tunneled—
I saw myself dancing under a yellow streetlight, holding hands with someone whose smile cracked open something in me. His eyes were like a song I’d forgotten. He kissed my forehead and the world stilled.
I blinked.
Back in the chair. Hand shaking.
Second bite:
Sunflowers. Laughter. A ring slipped on my finger like silk.
Third bite:
The ocean warm as soup, a name written in sand. A honeymoon that smelled like salt and coconut lotion.
Each time I cut the pie, it grew back.
Smooth. Silent. Like it had never been touched.
No end.
It would never end.
I could stay here, eating my future, forever.
