When Eve came up with a recipe for Madeline
she offered the first one to Adam. “Mmm”
he said, innocently staring down her cleavage.
A shudder ran through him and he stopped, intent
on the extraordinary thing that was happening to him.
An exquisite pleasure invaded his senses.
But, having no childhood and very little past to call upon,
the sensation infused his blood;
a plexus of nerves, a synaesthesia jolted:
something else of shape and solidity sprang into being,
enlarging the present and pointing to the future.
Those squat, plump little cakes hit the spot,
like a first drag on his morning fag
or long parched slugs of cider at the end of the day.
italics: Proust
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