Baker, baker… baking a cake.
He took out the pan and set the oven to three hundred and sixty degrees. The mixing bowl was smooth and obsessively clean, as the rest of the kitchen was; full of gleaming metals and polished woods- pristine and organized.
He picked a choice spoon, and rubbed his chin absently, with smug regard for the woman pictured in his mind’s eye.
Playful, tolerant. Mousy and coy. Almond extract, confectionery sugar, a pinch of salt.. he was readying the ingredients with indifference, imagining the details and the product, all in one beautiful picture.
Make me a day…
His hands worked magic.
Sly, but unconfident. Kind, complex, courageous but easily discouraged. There were licorice bits and strawberries. The mix was fluffed and at room temperature, rose a bit and was slightly orange in hue.
Make me whole again.
Downcast eyes; she avoided most, but cherished many. Afraid of loss, protective and self-sacrificing. Needy. Full of pride.
And I wonder…
He cut through batter with a knife to remove the pockets of air and poured the mixture in silken sheets like ribbon into the baker’s pan. The oven air was warm and the smell of heat was inviting, blazing reflections on the tin. He smiled to himself, and whipped the butterscotch crème, glazed the strawberry tarts, and prepared the filling.
He was driven and focused, his eyes locked to his work where each motion was direct and graceful. Meticulous, he was the prophet, each timeless procedure of lifetimes dedicated to this very art at his fingertips. Step-by-step, he was creating a masterpiece.
12 minutes had passed. He opened the oven door with a mitted hand, and took the tin from the rack carefully. Set upon the lacquered counter top, it was still moist, but with shape. He removed the center piece and quickly filled the empty spot with the dark, sultry mix, hidden from the outside; a surprise for the one who takes the first bite. A secret kiss.
How mine would taste…
Glazed, perfected, readied and packaged, the cake was set upon the counter top, boxed and tied in one fluid motion with a bright red bow.
The baker rinsed his hands, artfully thin and clean and full of powerful grace. even still. He studied the artwork of the box and what lay within, warm and waiting for the woman who would take it home. It was delectable.
What’s in my cake this time?
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