Eat it, too.

I've been going to Alycia's Bakery for weeks now, trying to figure out what she has that I don't.

The bell above the door jingles melodiously as I enter the store, the windows decorated with painted-on cartoons filling the small space with cheerful natural light. A glass-encased counter dominates the room, overfilled with breads, pastries, doughnuts, and cakes. The smell, the glorious smell, surrounds me. I could close my eyes and walk down the street, guided by smell alone, to find this bakery. The smell clings to me after only being in here one minute; I'm sure it engulfs her entire being. She doesn't smell like shampoo, moisturizer, or perfume. She smells like ginger snaps, lemon tarts, and sourdough bread.

When I go home, after savouring my latest purchase, I make sure I shower and wash my clothes.

She always comes up from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. How matronly, like a homestead wife. Maybe that's what it is. It can't be her soft brown eyes, her pale face unencumbered by makeup, her frame rounded from years of enjoying her work. Can you even trust a skinny baker? She's courtious and polite as I choose my next culinary adventure, packing up my dessert in a purple box with pink polkadots and a white ribbon, before taking my bills. I always decline the change.

The house is quiet. Yellow gloves rest next to the sponge near the empty sink. The hummingbird feeder outside the window above it has a visitor, brandishing his bright yellow chest, the thrum of his wings audible through the screen. The basil plant on the sil stretches towards the sun, freshly clipped from last night's bolognese sauce.

I set the box on the table and sit, facing out the patio doors towards the garden. He won't be home for another five and a half hours. It's just me, and this box. I delicately ply the ribbon and open it, revealing its contents.

A single slice of chocolate cake. Devil's food chocolate, the quaint chalk sign with her swirly cursive writing had stated. Despite the name, it smells heavenly. Ganache is squeezed between three layers, piled decadently high with frosting.

Really, it's too much. Isn't it? Or is this what he likes?

It couldn't be the lemon merangue pie, which was much too tart. It couldn't be the strawberry shortcake, too light and fluffy. The banana nut loaf, well, my mother's recipe is better.

Lifting my fork, I slide the tines through each layer, pulling a morsel free. I lift it to my lips, pausing, hesitant, unsure if I want to know what it tastes like.

But I need to know.

My lips envelope the fork before pulling it free, sliding it out between my closed lips. My mouth is immediately engulfed in flavor; the rich chocolate of the ganache, the spongey layers of cake, the sweet overtone of icing, meeting together in chorus, harmoniously singing different octaves, melding together to form something beautiful. Transcendent.

I close my eyes and savour it, a quiet moan escaping the back of my throat.

This is it. I've found it.

The satisfaction I thought I'd feel in this moment is clouded by a deeper emotion, a sinking in my chest, an ache in my heart, that I hadn't expected to feel, and yet I can't quite place. The closest word I can summon is inevitability. My whole body shudders with an of course.

Setting my fork down, I drop my head in my hands and allow myself one moment of misery before pulling myself back up. I stare at the cake, in all of its perfection, resignation washing over me.

I have two options. I can allow this cake to haunt me forever. Or, I can take up arms and fight back, fight for my life, for our life, prove to myself, to him, to everyone, what I'm capable of.

Pushing the cake back, I brandish the apron I got for Christmas several years ago that always hangs on the pantry door, and yet is never worn. Pulling out the eggs, cocoa, and sugar, along with an old "Company's Coming" cookbook from the cupboard above the fridge, I get to work.

I crack the eggs and begin whisking, reminding me of the time he cooked me breakfast on our honeymoon, of how we couldn't afford to go anywhere, but he'd taken three days off work and we'd lounged in bed all afternoon, eating chocolate covered strawberries and drinking cheap boxed wine.

I measure out the cocoa, just like I used to do with our children on those cold winter evenings after a day spent on the toboggan hill before curling up and sitting next to one another in front of the fire, "It's A Wonderful Life" playing quietly in the background for the third time that season.

I stir in the sugar, trying my best not to cry, recalling how that used to be the name he called me when we were young and in love and the whole world was at our feet, but now, somehow, after thirty seven years, we've reverted back to first names.

All afternoon I pour my literal sweat and tears into my creation. When it's finished, I take a step back to admire what I've made. It's glorious, standing three layers tall, with generous heapings of ganache in between and piled high with frosting.

It looks just like hers.

After cleaning up, showering, and washing my clothes, I walk back downstairs just in time to greet him at the front door.

"Hello, Debbie." His voice is flat and without intonation, much like our marriage.

"Hello, Harold. How was work?" I take his lunch box that I've been lovingly filling with his favourite snacks and sandwiches five days a week, for thirty seven years.

He sits on the stairs and unties his shoes. He hasn't even looked at me. "I have a surprise for you," I say, making my way to the kitchen.

"Are the Andersons coming for dinner?" He follows me, two steps behind.

"No, but we're playing crib with them on Sunday after church." Entering the kitchen, I turn to face him, reveling in the surprised lift of his brows when his eyes alight on the table. Sitting atop it is a purple box with pink polka-dots, tied with a white ribbon.

"You picked up dessert?" He asks, his voice too high in pitch.

I smile sweetly. "Well, darling, it is a special day, is it not?" Pulling a chair out, I beckon for him to sit down. He obliges, and I can almost hear the gears in his head squeaking as he puzzles over which day it is.

"It's not our anniversary," he says.

"No," I say, handing him a fork.

"It's not your birthday, or mine."

"No," I say, sitting opposite him.

He pulls the ribbon on the box and opens it, revealing a slice of thick chocolate cake. I watch, mesmerized, as his pupils dilate and his lips part. It was the cake, after all. Brandishing the fork, he scoops a large, messy bite, and shovels it into his mouth, teeth scraping against tines. I watch him chew, his eyes closed, and swallow.

"How do you like it?" I ask, biting my knuckles.

Licking the frosting from his lips, he nods his approval. "It's delicious."

My shoulders relax and I sigh contentedly. "I'm so glad."

He eats more and more, messily, childishly, until there's nothing left but crumbs and remnants of frosting, which he scrapes free of his plate.

"I'm ready to tell you what day it is," I say, resting my elbows on the table.

He wipes his face on a napkin and leans back in his chair. He looks at me for the first time today, the first time in weeks. He really looks at me. And that's made it all worthwhile.

"What day is it?"

I lean forward, drawing the moment out. "Today is the day I leave you."

He opens mouth, presumably (hopefully) to argue with me, to beg me to stay, but he stops. His eyes widen and he clutches his throat, gasping for air. I watch, as emotionless as he's been through the last several years of our marriage, as the arsenic shuts down his organs one, by one, by one. He collapses on the table, his right cheek pressed against his plate, eyes open and staring at our wedding photos hanging on the wall.

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