Status: Short story/flash fiction
Baking in a Heat Wave
Baking In A Heat Wave
The sun outside blared hot enough to make the whole world shimmer, but inside the apartment, it wasn’t uncomfortable. I wondered casually how much air conditioning was, considering heat waves like this were common, but I deemed it impolite to ask. It might be a good investment, though.
Regardless, the kitchen floor was cool under my bare feet. Perhaps my usual donning of dark skinny jeans was a foolish choice, but the light cotton tank top evened out my temperature. I padded across the floor to replace the flour on its designated shelf and returned to the cutting board, where two large bowls sat. The egg that I gently picked up and cracked against the large ceramic bowl was as cold as the brown bottle I grabbed off the counter and sipped from. It had a blanket of condensation, tiny beads that clustered together and fell as I put it to my lips.
As I measured out the teaspoon of dark, rich vanilla, my eyes darted sideways briefly before returning to the labour before me. The slap of skin on the linoleum repeated across the kitchen, barely audible under the music floating in from somewhere in the apartment. “Whatcha doing?”
“What’s it look like, smart boy?” I retorted with a smile down at the gritty mix of sugar, milk, water, vanilla, and egg. “I’m baking.”
“Technically you’re throwing stuff together in a bowl,” he corrected, stepping behind me and sliding his hands around my waist. I paused to inhale the now-familiar scent of him: the faint hint of leather amid cologne and cigarettes. Damn it, but I’d even grown to not mind him smoking. “It won’t be baking until you put it in the oven.”
I turned my head to look at him from the corner of my eye. “Smartass.” He smiled and leaned his cheek against my hair. I picked up the dry ingredients and slowly poured a little, then mixed, then added a little more, then mixed again. I was trying to be careful not to spill any, but now my mind was elsewhere and little clouds of flour were escaping.
He leaned his head down to rest it on my bare shoulder, watching me mix up the lumpy tan batter. His long, dark hair tickled when it brushed against my neck, and my skin tingled where his hands ran over the fabric of my shirt. “Costa, the cookies aren’t going to be very good if you distract me,” I said, picking up a clump that had flown out of the bowl.
Costa chuckled and pressed a kiss to the ball of my shoulder, where I intended to tattoo something or other. “Sure, they will,” he argued, fingertips feathering touches just above the edge of my jeans. “I have no idea why you’re baking though. It’s hot as fuck outside.”
I breathed out a laugh. Costa could seamlessly transition between sweet-talking and cursing like a sailor and back without changing tone, so that even the most vile of sentences was warm honey to my ears. “Because cookies are delicious.”
“Mmhmmm…” Costa’s lips moved up my shoulder, leaving tiny praises with every kiss. My grip tightened on the spatula as his breath spilled over the back of my neck. Oh why had I tied my hair up?
With a deep breath, I leaned far to the right for the bag of chocolate chips. I pushed against his arms, which didn’t want me to go anywhere, and after a moment of straining the muscles in my arm, snatched up the plastic bag. As I cut them open with the scissors from the drawer near my hip, Costa pressed more firmly against my back. I could feel the muscles in his chest, his arms, when they flexed, but more than that I was flooded with his smell and warmth. And roughness. He always looked so smooth, clean-shaven and dark-eyed and easy-smiling, but he felt… tough. Resilient.
“Do you want any help?” he murmured, lips lightly grazing my ear.
I smiled leisurely. “No, I’m almost done,” I replied softly.
“Okay.” Costa lifted a hand off my stomach and tilted my chin towards him. My eyes instantly closed when our lips met, and a warm feeling spread through my chest to counter the goosebumps that rose all over my skin.
Costa pulled away and looked down. A confused grin pulled at the side of his mouth. “How are you cold?” he asked with amused incredulity, rubbing his hands briskly up and down my arms. “You’re so weird.”
I shot him a mock-glare, made all the more unbelievable by my smile. “Just for that, you don’t get to lick the bowl.”
His brown eyes glinted and a smirk crossed his face, but Costa made no comment. He kissed me again, firm but brief, and strolled out of the room. My eyes wandered after him before returning to the bowl of dough.
It was hot outside, but the cookies would be good. Almost as good as the company.
Regardless, the kitchen floor was cool under my bare feet. Perhaps my usual donning of dark skinny jeans was a foolish choice, but the light cotton tank top evened out my temperature. I padded across the floor to replace the flour on its designated shelf and returned to the cutting board, where two large bowls sat. The egg that I gently picked up and cracked against the large ceramic bowl was as cold as the brown bottle I grabbed off the counter and sipped from. It had a blanket of condensation, tiny beads that clustered together and fell as I put it to my lips.
As I measured out the teaspoon of dark, rich vanilla, my eyes darted sideways briefly before returning to the labour before me. The slap of skin on the linoleum repeated across the kitchen, barely audible under the music floating in from somewhere in the apartment. “Whatcha doing?”
“What’s it look like, smart boy?” I retorted with a smile down at the gritty mix of sugar, milk, water, vanilla, and egg. “I’m baking.”
“Technically you’re throwing stuff together in a bowl,” he corrected, stepping behind me and sliding his hands around my waist. I paused to inhale the now-familiar scent of him: the faint hint of leather amid cologne and cigarettes. Damn it, but I’d even grown to not mind him smoking. “It won’t be baking until you put it in the oven.”
I turned my head to look at him from the corner of my eye. “Smartass.” He smiled and leaned his cheek against my hair. I picked up the dry ingredients and slowly poured a little, then mixed, then added a little more, then mixed again. I was trying to be careful not to spill any, but now my mind was elsewhere and little clouds of flour were escaping.
He leaned his head down to rest it on my bare shoulder, watching me mix up the lumpy tan batter. His long, dark hair tickled when it brushed against my neck, and my skin tingled where his hands ran over the fabric of my shirt. “Costa, the cookies aren’t going to be very good if you distract me,” I said, picking up a clump that had flown out of the bowl.
Costa chuckled and pressed a kiss to the ball of my shoulder, where I intended to tattoo something or other. “Sure, they will,” he argued, fingertips feathering touches just above the edge of my jeans. “I have no idea why you’re baking though. It’s hot as fuck outside.”
I breathed out a laugh. Costa could seamlessly transition between sweet-talking and cursing like a sailor and back without changing tone, so that even the most vile of sentences was warm honey to my ears. “Because cookies are delicious.”
“Mmhmmm…” Costa’s lips moved up my shoulder, leaving tiny praises with every kiss. My grip tightened on the spatula as his breath spilled over the back of my neck. Oh why had I tied my hair up?
With a deep breath, I leaned far to the right for the bag of chocolate chips. I pushed against his arms, which didn’t want me to go anywhere, and after a moment of straining the muscles in my arm, snatched up the plastic bag. As I cut them open with the scissors from the drawer near my hip, Costa pressed more firmly against my back. I could feel the muscles in his chest, his arms, when they flexed, but more than that I was flooded with his smell and warmth. And roughness. He always looked so smooth, clean-shaven and dark-eyed and easy-smiling, but he felt… tough. Resilient.
“Do you want any help?” he murmured, lips lightly grazing my ear.
I smiled leisurely. “No, I’m almost done,” I replied softly.
“Okay.” Costa lifted a hand off my stomach and tilted my chin towards him. My eyes instantly closed when our lips met, and a warm feeling spread through my chest to counter the goosebumps that rose all over my skin.
Costa pulled away and looked down. A confused grin pulled at the side of his mouth. “How are you cold?” he asked with amused incredulity, rubbing his hands briskly up and down my arms. “You’re so weird.”
I shot him a mock-glare, made all the more unbelievable by my smile. “Just for that, you don’t get to lick the bowl.”
His brown eyes glinted and a smirk crossed his face, but Costa made no comment. He kissed me again, firm but brief, and strolled out of the room. My eyes wandered after him before returning to the bowl of dough.
It was hot outside, but the cookies would be good. Almost as good as the company.
♠ ♠ ♠
This came out of an assignment for my Writing On The Body class in which I had to write something sensual. No, not like that. As in, pertaining to the senses. Well somebody else in my group played off the meaning of sensual that most people think of, which inspired me to do this.Costa, by the way, is short for Constantine (no, nobody I ever write about has a normal name).