The heat from the oven teased Elle’s hair from the crack of the door. She idly looked over the wet ingredient list in her hand: one cup lactose-free milk.
“…pass me the Rice Dream?”
She let go of the oven handle, let it close with a rush of hot air and reached her hand back without turning around.
Mica’s darker, longer hand brushed against Elle’s smaller, paler one.
“Here.”
The exchange was painfully slow, dragging even. Elle was rigid, took the box carton, and poured in the measuring ladle one cup of lactose free milk. Mica regarded her openly enough that Elle didn’t have to see her to know she was watching. The darker one turned her back. On her list was the dry ingredients: one cup organic flour; sift well with ¾ cup dutch-processed cocoa, ¾ teaspoon baking soda…
She whisked the mix.
“Any salt?”
Elle was unnerved by the smooth voice, caught up in herself and the frothing mix of soy, with a few drips of vinegar to bring it to a curdle before adding in the moist, caramelized sugar.
Mid-motion, Elle shook herself alert again and brought her wooden spoon from its cycle to rest on the edge of the large tin bowl.
Before she could speak, she could feel the distance between them closing… like that last time…
“Oh, here it is..” Mica reached past Elle, who had turned from her stupor just in time to block Mica’s path.
Their eyes met.
Unintentionally, of course.
Mica’s piercing gaze and calm, always mysteriously calm face was inches from Elle’s. She was watching her.
Elle fumbled with herself and made a red-cheeked escape, barking: “Sorry!” before retreating to the bowl again. A turned back was her only defense mechanism, though somehow, it only quickened the racing of her heart. This is silly… we’re only baking. We’re friends and we are baking..
Mica was grace on water, unmoved by the display, and immediately focused on the salt, its measuring, its placement in the bowl, and its slow fade into the dry mix.
Elle’s spoon was quivering, but she stirred it as she should, until the sugar became a texutre in the bottom of the bowl, and then a thickening agent of her ingedients. Her mix was ready- she regarded it with detachment.
“El..”
The oven made a loud “ting”, declaring the perfect temperature had been reached- and Elle jumped, the noise jolting her hand from the bowl’s edge, forcing it off kilter to the edge of the counter where in slow motion it and she was falling-
Mica lept with long limbs to catch the smaller, paler, frailer girl. She was a dark blur and a mess of liquid hair, brilliant eyes, and clattering dishes.
Elle’s wrist in hers, the two girls we dangerously close, entwined and breathing. Elle was tilting her chin, Mica was calmly, mysterious, holding her closer and closer and tighter still.
The two bowls below them were sideways.
The two girls above were locked together.
The organic milks and melted sugars and oils crept to the mixes of sifted flour and cocoa, darkening where they met.
Mix well, bring to a boil…
Mica’s hair fell over Elle’s shoulder.
..and simmer.
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