Guilty Pleasure

Tonight when twin B got home from work,
he was hungry.
Dinner was put away, and didn't interest him,
and his brother was just heading to bed,
so,
with the thrill of the forbidden
I whispered,
Want a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?
Our eyes lit up as we started fishing out the components,
digging deep for the jar of Skippy we'd mostly devoured while twin A was in Maine for a week last month.
I had the grape jelly spread in slippery chunks across three slices of bread,
(one for me, two for my non-allergic kiddo)
when a door slammed open and feet pounded down the stairs.
I heard impatient rummaging in a backpack,
mutters of frustration under the breath of a boy
who just remembered he hadn't finished his homework.
I froze.
Twin A skidded into the kitchen
and flopped down at the island
to jot a few vocabulary words in a notebook.
I felt like a traitor.
How could I enjoy this delicacy under his watchful,
currently-anaphylaxis-free eye?
He noticed what he'd interupted and his annoyance showed.
I thought you were in bed, I offered
(a weak apology from a weak woman).
I wish you would just eat it, what's the big deal? he countered
(a strong statement from a strong boy).
He finished his quick assignment
as I spread gobs of pureed death on soft-as-cake white bread,
2 feet away.
Goodnight, love you, he said,
as he faded back upstairs.
His brother and I sat in silence,
savoring every bite,
and maybe...feeling a little less guilty about it than we'd expected.