Chapter Text
The air smells like honey and the stairs never stop creaking here. In fact, the buildings never stop making concerning noises — the settling keeps you up at night and stirs you from your fleeting slumber. In those spine chilling moments, you nearly cry as you’re reminded that the wind hits the exteriors differently here — navigated and through a canal of tall brick structures and narrow street ways. You get used to the startling sounds, slowly and then all at once.
But it’s entirely worth it when you unlatch your windows in the morning, the fresh sweet smells of the bustling cafes and bakeries wafting through your space. The incoherent chatter of strangers lingering in the city streets below play like a record while you sip your morning brew, your bathrobe knotted at your waist as you soak in the sunlight on your balcony.
You love it here. You’re happy you moved here. Even if your begonia slumps sadly against the rusted railing — you have to remember to water it every day.
Even though you know no one, minus the kind elderly gentleman who owns your building. Even though every person you’ve tried to befriend hasn’t been, well, friendly. At least they’re honest, and you decide that’s all you can ask for.
You don’t always recall why you left your hometown in the first place. It hits you in a vague recollection; your mother crying, your boss handing you a pastel pink piece of parchment, your last straw being snapped. Your soul, your goddamn soul, was fiery and roaring in stagnancy.
You had to get the fuck out of there. So you did.
You scraped together every last penny in your savings, took a hammer to your childhood piggy bank, packed your bags and hauled your ass to the furthest city you could think of. You found yourself thankful for the disaster that was your foggy past, it led you here.
Your mother had told you once you were a runner. When things got hard, you escaped. Whether it was in the rainbow of paints on your canvas, or an unscrewed bolt on your window, you left. You remember in your younger years how she had caught you one night slipping back into your bedroom, the window having been left wide open. You hadn’t even seen her on your bed. She told you that you couldn’t live like this forever.
“Look at me now, mom,” you chuckle to yourself, swinging your right knee over the left in your chair. The sky was grey today, the breeze cold and the streets silent. Your coffee chilled in your palm, the doors to your balcony wide open. You feel a drop of rain, and head inside.
The clouds look angry today, and you decide you should paint them later.
The locks snap in place along the glass doors, and you turn. Your bed is unmade, the edge of your comforter gracing the cold cedar floorboards of your apartment. Your clean, and dirty, clothes are scattered about, but you pay them no mind. You’ll clean it all up eventually, but it’s not like you have guests to entertain at the moment anyways.
You are happy. You know this, you feel this. But at the same time, you wonder if it’s because you’re also so incredibly lonely.
You spend your morning scrolling through job listings on your phone, uncountable cups of coffee brewed and sipped. You flinch when you hear the old clock on your living room wall chime that noon has graced you. You wonder how many people your clock has seen stumble about the apartment you now inhabit, rushing to get ready for the day.
You nearly poke yourself in the eye with your mascara, your hands wafting air to control the tears that brim your lash line. They calm, and you shove your feet into a pair of old sneakers, and you’re out the door. You turn away from your lock, and crash immediately into a hard object.
You land on your ass with an ‘umph’, and cast a glare to whatever suddenly erected in front of your normally emptied hallway.
It’s a man, a very handsome, angry man.
“Regardez où vous allez,” he snarls, and you take note of his full hands. He holds a medium sized cardboard box, and from the clench of his fingers, it appears heavy.
(Look where you are going.)
You want to tell him you don’t understand, that you don’t speak French. But you are too caught up in how coal black strands of hair sit along his brow bone, how the creases sit by the corners of his eyes smooth and deepen as his expression turns neutral. His eyes are sparkling silver, flecks of icy blue scattered about in his irises, his pupils small and lashes long. They remind you of the sky outside, and your breath gets caught in your throat.
The man parts his lips again, an eyebrow arches, “Vous êtes sourd? Ou juste stupide?”
(Are you deaf? Or just stupid?)
You finally find the courage to speak, and you quickly scramble to your feet, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”
“Ah, donc, stupide alors,” he says under his breath even though you do not understand. “Watch where you’re going next time.”
(Ah, so, stupid then.)
You can’t help but pout at his words. The man was outside your door after all, why should you have to watch your step when he was the eyesore?
You decide to apologize anyways, “I’m sorry. I’m in a rush, I really didn’t see you.”
You watch as his smoky irises shift, scanning your form from head to toe. You don’t feel small under his heavy gaze, nor do you feel objectified. It’s like he’s sizing you up, like he’s just taking a good stern look at the woman who had just slammed into him.
His pupils meet yours, his voice soft, “Just be careful.”
You wonder if he can hear how fast your heart races in your chest at his words. His clear, understanding words — not many speak English in the city, and the lack of conversation with another person rings strong within you. You want to open your mouth, to find some reason to keep talking to the raven haired stranger, but he turns. The man strides just a few feet away to the apartment door right next to your own, and he shuffles through his pockets to fish out his keys before unlocking the chipped golden lock adorning the cedar.
His eyes flicker back to you for a moment, and then he disappears behind the closing door.
This has been your first coherent conversation with another human being since you moved here — an entire week of near silence. You wonder if maybe you can make a friend out of the ravenette with the pretty eyes.
Then you remember, you’re running late to your job interview.
The image of him does not dilute in your mind’s eye as you travel down the stairwell, does not exit your memory as you board a train. It doesn’t even falter as you stand outside the building of your possible employment — a hair salon on the other side of town. You’ve never cut a strand of hair a day in your life, but you like to think you have excellent skills in washing and sweeping. You hope your employers see it too.
They don’t.
“I have experience,” you had pleaded, trying your best to keep your tone professional and light. “I promise, if you hire me, you will not be disappointed.”
“Sorry, we just can not take the risk.”
You scribble out the name of the salon in your planner while you lean against the brick building. You scowl at the ever growing list of business names and positions, and wonder if the list of jobs presented to you on your search engine are designed to disappoint you. You feel as though they’re out to get you, personally.
You’ve been here for a week and you know your funds are running dry. You only have enough money to support yourself for another month, at most.
With a defeated sigh, you push your back off the brick wall and take a glance around. The north side of the city is beautiful to say the least — carefully placed planters hang from balconies, elegant architecture meets your eyes and warms your creative nature. If you didn’t feel so dejected, maybe you would’ve taken a few pictures to draw later on. But all the gorgeous scenery did was remind you that you were an outsider in this place.
You don't belong here amongst the crowd of well dressed people in their luxury brands, their expensive cars. You hardly belong in your part of the city either, even if it’s considered more affordable. Still, you love your apartment, you love the reality you’ve created for yourself. You suppose that maybe being sad is a part of the journey, so you clench your fists and will yourself to step forward.
Who knows, maybe tomorrow will be a better day. You remember that you’re happy, and you love the urban jungle you’ve joined.
You spend the rest of your early afternoon roaming the streets without a map, eager to familiarize yourself with the street names and to deem your favorite shops at landmarks. Since the weather is dreary today, not many people line the streets. You feel the occasional rain drop greet your nose and cheeks, and in your hurry you had forgotten an umbrella. It can’t be helped, especially when the clouds part and the fall becomes more patterned and frequent. You relinquish your adventure, and thankfully remember your path back to the train station before the rain really picks up.
There’s a woman who catches your eye on the train — she’s older, maybe in her mid 50’s. She sits alone, knees crossed in her long skirt and tights. She doesn’t look at the flashing signs of the drop off locations along the route, nor pays any mind to the intercom spoken in that language you do not understand. Instead, she stares out the foggy window by her seat, a small smile on her face. To anyone other than you, she would look sad. But without looking, her eyes widening as the train passes under a particularly long overpass, she stands to her feet. Maybe it’s muscle memory, or maybe she uses the concrete to judge her distance from her destination, you do not know. All you know is that she flashes you a smile on her way over to the automatic doors, and you send her one back.
You will never be able to let this woman know how much that smile means to you. The train feels colder when she leaves.
Your apartment complex isn’t staggeringly tall, it’s old and made of the same bricks that seem to line every building in this aged city. The doors make shrill sounds that claw at your eardrums when you push them — or pull, you still haven’t worked out the habit of familiarizing yourself with them yet. There are no elevators, only steep staircases and withering railings. You nearly trip over every fifth step, and by the time you make it to your floor, it’s a miracle you hadn’t passed out. Either from falling or the climb itself, you do not know. Regardless, your thighs ache and your calf muscles scream in agony.
You love it here. You’re happy you moved here.
Your front door shuts softly behind you, well at least as softly as it can. You’ve found drastic differences in the levels of creaks and slams, and you deem this one subtle. Your back slumps against the cedar, and your eyes meet your wall clock from across the open space of your threshold.
It’s past seven in the evening, and you realize you haven’t gone grocery shopping to make an adequate dinner for yourself.
You lazily push yourself forward to your bedroom, kicking your shoes off for the sneakers to lay in whatever place they may. You’ll wear them again tomorrow, anyway. No use putting them back where they belong.
You change out of your day clothes and find a silk robe in your closet. It brushes below your knees, and you wonder if this is the most expensive piece of clothing you own. You cost you half a paycheck in your hometown, and it was on sale. An early birthday present is what you had reasoned it to be, even if your birthday was six months away from then.
Your feet are bare as you wander to your kitchen, a very short distance from your bedroom. Your space is small but feels like a home, just maybe not yours. Sometimes you wake up and think you’re on vacation. The walls are thick in some places and in others they are thin, but the rooms all bleed into each other with wide arches and clean white paint. You have no pictures lining the surfaces, but you prefer it that way. It hurts too much to remember a past that did not want you.
There were a number of small things you had brought with you from home — a coffee pot, the robes (and most of your clothes), and your paint brushes. They were all you could fit inside the single cardboard box that traveled across land and sea alongside you, the box still lingering somewhere within your dwelling. Thankfully, the apartment had come with furniture. On the flip side, it was added to your rent. You really had to find a job, and soon.
The coffee pot chimes that the water is finished heating, and you add a tea bag to your mug. You let the scolding water fill to the brim, adding an ice cube for good measure. You’re impatient and you refuse to learn how to become more tolerant in any aspect of your life. The world moves too quickly for that.
The sun is low in the sky when your exposed feet hit the patio of your balcony. You abandon your chair for the afternoon, choosing to lean your elbows along the weathered railing and slowly sip at your tea. The clouds have left, revealing a dusty purple and pink hue in the atmosphere. You can hear the bustling of the cafe directly across the street from your apartment, but you’re too high up to decipher any words. The people eating and conversing outside look like ants, your eyes unable to focus on any distinct features. They seem happy though. You can make out their laughs.
Your begonia looks slightly happier at least, perky and less yellow-y than this morning. You silently thank the scattered rainfall that plagued most of the day. It saved you from forgetting about your poor plant friend once more.
There’s a click to your left, and for a second you believe you forgot to close your glass doors behind you. They rattle incessantly when you leave them open without the door stopper, the curtains fluttering like butterfly wings. The breezes are soft when you’re outside, but the second they pass the barrier of your building it sounds like a tornado has personally invited itself into your home.
You spare a glance behind you — not your doors. They’re closed tight. Your wandering eye leads you to gaze to the balcony next to yours. It’s empty, save for a single metal chair that looks older than the building itself. From your week of being perched on your platform, you’ve come to find that your neighbors hardly ever make good use of their personal mezzanines. A few outdoor plants here and there line the side of the exterior, but it’s mostly empty and void of personality. You think it’s because people come and go very quickly here, as it’s the best inexpensive option when moving to the city. At least, it was for you. Maybe it’s because the street it resides on has very little activities below, mainly just bakeries and a handful of cafes.
You can’t imagine moving anywhere else though. You truly do love your apartment.
You didn’t mean to stare and get lost in thought, but as you snap out of your inner monologue the man who you had ran into earlier stands on his balcony, staring straight back. You smile sheepishly, apologetically. He does not return the gesture, and you remember all at once that you are wearing quite a skimpy outfit for your neighbor of all people to catch you in. The robe may reach below your knees, but it’s thin. The knot around your waist is loose. You’re wearing nothing aside from a bra and panties underneath the silk.
You know your face drops, you can feel heat collect beneath the layers of skin on your cheeks, your blood boiling in embarrassment. You don’t know if it’s mercy or something else that provokes the raven haired man to turn his gaze away and retreat back indoors. All you know is that his presence felt like welcomed company, and your feet do not move from their spot.
You sigh. You’re no good at first impressions at all, are you?
The tea is lukewarm by the time the street lamps below kick on and the sky turns to a deep midnight blue. You miss the stars, and it’s the only thing you miss from home. The light pollution prevents the twinkling mystique and wonder of the galaxies far above your head from appearing to your naked eye, but the endless sea of street lights and high beams from cars almost seem to make up for its disappearance. Almost like a cluster of stars of its own. The city breathes, a body of constellations previously mapped. The grid is easy to appreciate from your view.
You think tea is good for plants so you dump the rest of your cup into your begonia. You imagine it says thank you.
Your sheets are freezing cold as you crawl into bed. Your phone light is dim, and your thumb hovers. You deleted all your social media in your hurried and carefully planned escape. You have no friends to text or to call, no family to reach out to. The pit of loneliness expands in your stomach, and you swallow a dry bubble of air. It’s not that you miss them, you tell yourself. You just miss talking to someone and having them talk back.
Your plant makes a terrible conversationalist, but you appreciate it regardless. Maybe you’ll name your begonia.
You place your phone on your chest as soft instrumentals of calming music fill the space of your bedroom. It’s not loud, you can barely hear the lyrics as the songs play. But it feels like someone’s there with you.
-
“Morning, neighbor!”
You’re grateful you’re wearing normal clothes now, and you’re not in such a rush this morning. In fact, you even had time to perfect your hair and makeup. You were early for a change, a new spark of hope springing forth from your center. You had a line up of promising job interviews today, and surely, hopefully, you were going to land one of them.
The man grunts, not exactly a warm greeting or a cold “fuck off”. You’ve waited with your ear leaning against your front door all morning to “coincidentally” run into your neighbor, waiting for the signal of signature creaky doors and heavy footfalls.
He looks unbothered today, but that’s probably because you’re not slamming full speed ahead into him. His hair is slightly disheveled, but his clothes are perfectly ironed, free of any wrinkles. There’s bags under his eyes, and you want to intrude and ask if he got enough sleep.
He’s not your friend, yet, you remind yourself. Don’t come across like a stalker.
“How are you today?” you try again, eager to hear a response. Silence meets your disappointing ears. You don’t give up, “It’s nice that the weather’s cleared up! I like the rain, but clear skies always put me in a good mood. How about you?”
“Are you usually this annoying before noon?” not the response you wanted, but it’s a response nonetheless.
You will your face to remain bright, “Sorry, just trying to be friendly. I haven’t gotten a chance to introduce myself.”
You spew out your name, blinking as you are once again met with silence. You charge forward in your one sided conversation with determination, “And you are?”
“Annoyed.”
“Well,” you‘re sure your smile looks mangled as anger surges through your body. “Pleasure to meet you, annoyed. You make a lot of friends with that attitude?”
“Just the same amount as you do, I’m sure,” is all the ravenette bites back, seemingly bored of your interaction. He has no idea what his indifference does to you.
He will be your friend whether he wants to be or not.
“I have plenty of friends, just so you know.”
“Ah yes, I see them coming in and out of your apartment every day. You’re quite popular, no?”
That handsome asshole got you there.
You hide your hands behind your back, concealing the way your fingers clench into fists, “You’re one to talk. You have a line up and down this hallway just as often as I do.”
The corner of his lips twitch, and you feel victorious. Until his pout parts and he says, “Take a number, then.”
Shit. Your eyes narrow. Think of something witty, and fast, “Your hair looks stupid.”
Silence is a complimentary word for the total lack of noise following your words. Not like a period, but a dark, long comma. A semicolon, even. Just without the other sentence.
You didn’t mean to insult the only person who’s held a conversation with you past three broken sentences in who knows how long. You just couldn’t think of anything else to say. Immediately, you want to apologize. Your lips move to speak again, to recant your statement, but his move faster.
“So does yours. Do you even own a mirror?”
“Mature,” you hiss, your grin finally deflated.
“Says the one who insulted my hair. You’ve got a real funny way of making friends.”
“So, we can be friends then?”
“No.”
“Fine.”
You can practically see the sparks flying between the glare you send each other. Like a taut electrical string between your pupils.
You cross your arms over your chest, “What are you doing later?”
“Goodbye,” he huffs, locking his apartment door and swiftly turning into long strides away from you.
You let the ravenette stalk away, even though you didn’t learn his name. You push back your scowl, and roll your shoulders. Maybe you’ll get another chance to learn it, you are neighbors after all.
You steal a glance at the top of his head as he disappears down the descending stairwell. His hair isn’t stupid at all. He’s quite a looker, honestly.
Grumpy, yes. Handsome, yes. Your friend? Not quite. But you hold on strong to hope.
You deem your interaction a success, even if it really was a failure, and relax your body. You wait a few minutes in front of your door, debating if it’s too early to head over to your job interview. It’s — you tug your phone out of your back pocket, gazing down at the bright white numbers — about two hours before your first interview. Yeah, a little too early.
You’re out the entrance doors of your apartment building, and decide that maybe it’s about time you finally tried out that cafe you’ve been watching this entire week. It looks just as pretty up close as you cross the street, the morning crowd of coffee goers and workaholics lining the outdoor patio space. They don’t send you any dirty looks when you walk through the open glass entryway, nor do they spare you any attention as you wait your turn in the fast moving line at the counter.
Now, there’s one phrase you know in French. You’ve studied it off multiple translation websites, written it over and over in your planner. You feel confident when it’s your turn to order.
“Je peux avoir un café glacé, s'il vous plaît?” you try your best at the accent, and hope it translates over well.
(Can I have an iced coffee, please?)
It does, and the barista nods, waving you over to the side. You step out of line, patiently awaiting your order to be called. Or, until you recognize it. You really only know three words of that sentence well enough. Iced, coffee, please.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
You almost tune out the perfect English, too immersed in the magnificent sight of the artform that is coffee making. Almost miss the unmistakable monotone voice of your neighbor. But you don’t, and you spin too fast on your heels to face him, nearly stumbling.
Your smile beams, “Hey, long time no see!”
“Are you following me now?” he sneers, rolling his eyes.
“No,” your eyebrow arches, your tone defensive. “You come here every morning?”
“Well, it is a cafe,” the ravenette deadpans, crossing his arms.
“That wasn’t a no.”
“I don’t like coffee.”
“That’s fine. You can order plenty of other things at a cafe.”
“Can you now? That’s incredible. You own the place?”
“Yeah, isn’t it obvious by the way I paid for my drink and I’m waiting in line?”
“You’ve got a smart mouth, you know that?”
“You’re one to talk.”
Is this how every meeting is going to go? This was one hell of a way to make a friend. Third time’s the charm though, right?
“What’d you order?” here it goes, another stab at pleasant conversation.
“A ‘fuck-off’ chai.”
“Wow, iced or hot?”
“You’re a fucking pest.”
You hold back your smirk, and your coffee order is called in those two words you’ve studied until your eyes have run dry. You ignore your neighbor’s insult and thank the disappearing barista stuck behind the counter, pretty sure he curses a response back at you in French.
“See ya’ around, neighbor!” you call out, bright and bubbly, without glancing back to see his expression.
He doesn’t return any parting words, and even if he had you wouldn’t have heard them. You’re too busy taking in the bustling scenery as you leave the cafe, the street now lined with bodies and cars. You take a tentative sip of your coffee, and purse your lips. Not bad. But definitely not sweet enough for your tastebuds. You usually add about a pound of sugar to your brew, but you think you can get used to the slightly bitter aftertaste that lingers on your tongue.
Your first job interview of the day goes surprisingly well. A small grocery store only a few blocks away from your apartment, filled with mostly essentials like locally baked bread and farm picked eggs. It’s all local, which might explain the high prices and the fact you’ve have yet to visit this store. The manager is kind and patient with you as you stubble over broken English and French conversations, both of you laughing away the awkwardness of the language barrier. It’s pleasant, uplifting, and you think even if you don’t land this job maybe the manager will give you a call to hang out sometime. It’s wishful thinking, but hey, anything can happen.
You have two more lined up, and on your way to your second interview — a receptionist position at a bank, when did you apply for this one? — you realize that the first interview had bled exceedingly too long, and you’re late. You show up at the corporation with little to no breath from your brisk walk and about ten minutes late. They don’t take you back for your interview because of this.
You scratch out the name of the bank in your planner, and go forward.
You think you do well enough in your third. A janitorial position at a children’s school. You’ll take anything at this point. And if nothing else, you don’t need to speak another language to mop floors.
By five o’clock you’ve ran all over the city and now you’re left with the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. The train station is more packed than usual, it’s Friday and you’ve caught the ‘getting home from work’ rush hour. You can’t help but feel proud and accomplished standing alongside the sea of suited strangers, even if they look dead in the eyes and they’re eerily silent. You imagine you sort of look the same.
You stand on the ride back to your part of town, a grocery bag in hand. You remembered before you left your first interview of how bare your shelves looked, and thinking about your grump neighbor, you had concocted a full proof plan. The ingredients are a tad overpriced, but you hope that the cost will lead to stellar quality as a result. You cross the fingers holding the bag. You hope you get this job.
Loud doors, squeaky staircase, heavy footsteps, slamming of your front door and the click of a lock. You are home. Your unmade bed looks very tempting as you cross your living room, on route to your kitchen, but you will yourself not to abandon your grocery bag to run face first into the mattress. That wouldn’t be very responsible of you, and you’re really looking forward to celebrating in the form of a nutritious dinner and a relaxing baking session.
It’s simple, but soup can fill your stomach for a couple of days while you wait to hear back from your potential bosses. Not to mention it’s easy to make and there’s thousands of recipes online for each kind of flavor. You’re satisfied with the result, the broth and floating vegetables much welcomed to your rumbling tummy. You hand wash your dishes, and then place your hands on your hips, a toothy grin set on your expression.
You’re going to fucking crush these cupcakes. They will be the best dessert you have ever made.
You keep this attitude as you set out all your supplies and preheat your oven. It’s only until you’re mixing your powders in your bowl that you realize you forgot one crucial ingredient.
You forgot sugar.
“How could you?” you hiss at yourself, betrayed by your own one track minded brain.
Maybe your neighbor will have some. Yeah, what a brilliant idea.
At least it was. You’ve now been waiting for ten unwavering minutes outside his front door. You’ve knocked twice. You hear no sounds, no sign of movement. You don’t see any light pour from underneath the small gap of space at the bottom of the entryway either. Nothing.
Fuck. You really needed that sugar.
“Okay, I’ll try next door,” your voice sounds shaky. You’re terrified of your other neighbor. An old woman, cranky and bitter. At least the raven haired asshole was funny about it. She wasn’t.
You had only conversed with her once, on the day you moved in. You had smiled her way, big and friendly. She had turned her nose up, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath, and practically ran inside to avoid any and all further interaction with you. You remember sighing wistfully, finding her charming.
Every time you’ve caught a glimpse of her since then, she’s flipped you the bird and slammed her front door behind her.
Now you find her frightening and mean.
Still, you knock, and you’re trembling in your sneakers when she opens the door. Her face falls, and she quirks an eyebrow.
“Sorry for bothering you,” you start off slowly. “Do you have any sugar?”
“Du sucre?” she exasperates, and you nearly scream in excitement. You know what she’s saying.
(Sugar?)
“Yes! Du sucre!” you’re completely unaware of how contagious your smile is.
“Oui. You owe me, fille ennuyeuse,” she sighs, letting her expression smooth over. “Wait here.”
(Yes — annoying girl.)
The elderly woman leaves her apartment door wide open, and you impatiently await her return as she scurries into the depths of her dwelling. It’s nice, pretty on brand to what you imagine an old person’s apartment to look like. Her furniture looks ancient, covered in thick plastic wrapping to preserve the materials. Though, you don’t know how much it’s actually helping, even from your view you can see the discoloration of use. You wouldn’t call her space cluttered, as it’s all organized nice and neatly, but there sure are a lot of things. Picture frames cover the wallpapers, portraits collected over decades. You hope her grandchildren visit her often, as you can see how much she adores them simply from the sheer amount of photos she has.
She returns with a bag of half used sugar, shrugging and shoving the spice towards you, “Don’t worry about returning. It can do.”
You think she’s trying hard to speak to you in her broken English, and you’re nearly moved to tears. She slams the door in your face before you can thank her.
Back in your own kitchen, disaster ridden from your baking adventure, you swipe your forehead with the back of your flour stained hand. This is the first time you’ve baked anything from scratch, and you hope it turns out okay. The cupcakes are cooling on the stove as you prepare your piping bag — a plastic ziplock baggie with a frosting tip shoved at the end. It’ll do the job, you think.
Twelve pale yellow cupcakes stare back at you tauntingly. You know mixing the cake would be the easiest part, but getting the perfect sponge to icing ratio is a challenge even for the pros. You crack your knuckles.
You got this.
It takes a painful hour, but you complete the desserts. The presentation has to be perfect, has to look like the cakes are ready to be displayed in front of the many bakeries and cafes that you pass by every day.
You’re going to gift them all to your neighbors, after all. You will worm your way into their hearts, and stomachs, as if it’s the last attempt you have.
Especially that handsome jerk. You want to floor him and forever flip his frown upside down. Even if it’s kinda cute when he scowls.
You fall asleep on your couch, still covered in dry ingredients and wearing your sneakers. At least you remembered to turn off the stove.