There it was. His strawberry shortcake: a miniature island of cream; his little escape from the flat sheets of grey paper stacked high on his desk. Delicately, he cut out a small triangle with a gleaming fork. The cake tasted sweetly of sin. There had been other, cheaper deserts, but that day he had simply needed his small strawberry shortcake. Saving was a virtue, but he needed more strawberries in his life. With its corner missing, the cake wasn’t perfect anymore. To spare it, he ate it. Without an excuse to stay, he said, “Goodbye,” and returned to his work.