The Cake and a Party

In a rush, I hurried through my front door, as always.  Two gorgeous people looked up to me from behind the rock slab I commonly adorn with a thick-wicked candle.  I wondered how they got in; they must have thought me to be an alien.  I noticed they were eating a cake I just concocted the day before.

“Who are you and how or why are you here?” I asked, knowing about the recipe of the cake.  “We are agents,” said the woman.  The man looked obedient.  The woman could speak; she was nice.  “We were in the neighborhood,” she said, “Found the bad guy down the road.  They took him away and we kept a whole fifth of whiskey from the crime scene.  We drank it.”

“That is very adventurous,” I said.  She went on; he really could agree with her.  I could tell that this was their second slice.  “Yes,” she said, “We were released from the case, somewhat disregarded, and went for a walk around the block.”  “The block?” I asked.  I considered what was on my person.  I carried my writings from earlier and a half-drank bottle of sparkling water… nothing incriminating or questionable.  “We walked down the side of the road to finish off the bottle we took secretly,” she admitted, “We took it; we were disregarded.  In our disdain, we saw the nice water fountain in the back.  We came in after seeing it; the big glass doors were open.”

“I am sorry that these things happened to you,” I said, wondering what I could divulge in return for their honesty.  “At least they caught the criminal, right?”  “Yes!” she said, as the whiskey warmed her from the inside.  “They got him; we could go.”  “And hence, the whiskey.  I see,” I said.  I did not want the conversation to turn to silence.  The cake was sure to be thought of soon enough.  “What do you think of the cake?” I asked.  I looked towards the man.  He had mostly been quite, must have needed attention.  “This cake is fabulous,” he said.  I was thinking, “I should hope so.”

The white cake was baked in three separate layers with two caramel syrups and a tediously whipped/foamed white chocolate cake icing.  To top off the top of the cake I spiraled a design of melted dark chocolate and sprinkled the spiral with dried cherries.  The cake’s looks impressed me; I sent a 300+ dpi photo of it to a chef companion of mine who blogs.  Though I received no immediate response from the chef; I could not help but wonder if the seemingly distraught agents could tell they consumed a mild sedative contained within the caramel.

Remembering the nice people took a drink, I decided to keep quiet.  The medication was a sort of truth serum, as if they were not speaking from the bottle, anyhow.  “Did you bake this cake?” she asked.  “Yes, I did,” I said, “Cooking to me is an art form.”  She seemed impressed enough.  They both had no business traveling.  “Care if I join you?” I asked, still standing with my documents in sizzling need of revision.  “By all means,” they said, looking around as if something might be in the way of my sitting with them.  “You are more than welcome to sleep it off in the guest room,” I said, sitting on my huge couch to the nice woman’s left.  “Thank you,” said the man in sincerity.  “Here you go,” said the woman, as she leaned her body next to mine and fed me a large bite of cake.  I encompassed the cake on her fork with my mouth in its entirety; she slid the fork slowly from my mouth.  My new goal was to turn in before the medication took effect.  I would not be needing more than one fine bite of the splendid cake.

“Thank you,” I said, and the two were fine.  We sat and appreciated what I happened to have up on the wall – a fast-paced piece of viscose acrylic paint, the artwork still not completely dry.  Seven-by-five feet, the painting was of an overhanging grassy volcanic cliff, a sunrise over an ocean’s horizon from what could have been an island smack dab on top of the equator.  We admired the painting for a moment, as if the ocean’s winds were blowing the waves over and over.  So very similar were the rolling waves.

I brought the guests to their room to rest until the morning.  They would be fine.  I went to my bed and slept well.  She was a very pretty lady after all – it was nice to be close.

♦