Kitchen Royale

At what point do you consider something to be a vice? Is it when someone repeats a habit so consistently; that missing it completely throws them off? Marlon has a serious vice. Every Friday, he leaves work ten minutes before closing just so that he can make it to the corner bakery. It’s a shoddy little hole in the wall that not many people notice. Even he accidentally fell into it. On the way out, he’s always caught with judgemental eyes but his hankering and addiction to confections overrides his sensibilities and his ability to feel guilt. In five minutes he’s able to reach the bakery. With it’s grey facade and dark tinted windows it perfectly conceals the pastry heaven on the inside. The hanging doorbell rings as he hustles in as if he’s reached refuge. No one is at the counter but Marlon isn’t phased. He inspects the display case. All the tarts glisten with their glazes, powdered pillows of dough are covered in powdered sugar like little bunnies all nestled together, and then there’s chocolates; too many to keep track of.

“Hey, Marlon!” , the shop owner calls from the back. He comes forward. “I have something special that I think you need.” He bends down and pulls out one of the most gorgeous things Marlon has ever seen. It’s aroma perfumes the room with notes of hazelnut and chocolate that connect with euphoric centers on the brain. The chocolate glaze has a perfect mirror finish that reflects how Marlon’s eyes grow wide at this presentation. His eyes circle around the curves of the cake and as he begins to salivate the owner covers the cake with a discreet brown box.

“Let me ring you up.”, he says.

Marlon digs into his pocket, pulls out a wad of cash, and presses it on the counter. The owner grabs the money and slides the box towards Marlon. Marlon grabs it and cradles it under his left arm. He turns away from the counter disregarding the change and bolts out the door. He begins power-walking down the street towards his apartment and is passed by a fury of police cars that create a gust of air almost putting Marlon on his heels. He checks to ensure that his pastry is still intact and continues making his way to his apartment. At this point, his anticipation for this cake has turned into the appearance of paranoia; his bustled walk, his neck jerking, and jostling for keys have become part of his ritualistic dance home.

Once inside, he forgoes the thought of dinner. He places the cake on the table, grabs a white plate from the cupboard, and a small fork from the drawer. Slowly, he lifts the box covering the cake and tosses it to the floor. He’s forgotten to grab the knife but at this moment he can’t be moved to turn away from the cake. He goes to sit down at the table as if kneeling at the altar of the pastry. Carefully, he uses the fork to cut into the cake. As someone being knighted, he moves left to right and then positions the fork underneath to transfer it to the plate.

He pauses for a second, then goes in for a bite. The bells and whistles of his taste buds go off and his body relaxes in his chair. A grin sweeps across his face as he goes in for the second bite. His chewing slows as he tries to savor the moment. He exhales releasing his belly and sinking further into the chair when he hears a small moan.

“Owwwww”

His eyes move left and right to find where the sound is coming from but he’s alone in this apartment. His eyes grow wide for a moment and then again “Owwwww!”, louder and more curdling than before. He picks up the fork and leans forward to inspect the cake. He gets closer to the cake and the cake bulges, sprouting an arm and grabbing the fork. The chocolate arm yanks the fork from his hand and throws it across the kitchen.

“Stop eating me!”, the layers of the cake scream at Marlon.

He’s startled to the floor, hitting it with a loud thud. He viciously rubs his eyes to make sure he isn’t asleep.

“I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming.”, he keeps repeating out loud. He gets on his hands and knees, cranes his head up to see if the cake is on the table. He crawls forward, barely able to see the table clearly, when the plate comes flying at his head. He ducks to avoid it and it shatters as it hits the tiled floor. The cake, now with fully formed arms and legs, walks to the edge of the table to peer down at him. Marlon lunges at the table. He completely misses the living cake and crashes down on the table. It topples over with him on it squishing the rest of the cake. He tries to orient himself.

He backs himself up onto cabinets and the slice is out of sight. His heart begins to race. The flour jar from the counter above slowly creeps to the edge. He peers up and the jar smashes into the bridge of his nose. He’s completely covered in flour and the pitter patter of small footsteps carry around the counter. He jumps up in search of protection. He reaches into the drawer that he pulled the fork from and grabs a potato masher. He turns around with the masher as his sword. The slice of cake has taken up arms as well with forks and butter knives. On opposite sides of the kitchen they are at a classic standoff from a western. Marlon lets out a guttural yell as he leaps forward to swing at the cake. It leaps out of contact and Marlon’s momentum sends him into a spin. The slice runs across the counter and Marlon tries again to charge it. He runs as fast as he can muster and the cake throws open a cabinet door and it connects with his face. It follows up by front-flipping over him, jabbing him with a fork. Marlon howls in pain and the cake takes off down the hallway.

Marlon pulls the fork from his shoulder and drops it to the floor. He’s an image of embarrassment covered in flour and with a bloody nose. He limps down the hallway and can hear water running in the bathroom. He creeps up to the corner of the doorway of the bathroom and tries to peak in. He checks the mirror to see if he can get a glimpse of the slice but nothing. He steps in and peers around. He grips the shower curtain in his fist and clinches it tightly. Then, he yanks it off its rail where the slice has been held up in the tub. The slice shoots a stream of cleaner shoots right into his eyes.

“My eyes!”, Marlon wails. He falls out of the bathroom and feels his way into his bedroom. He slams the door and runs to the corner where he can just see underneath the door over his bed. He grabs a shoe from under the bed quickly and goes right back to his post against the wall, watching the door and waiting for footsteps.

It stays silent. Minutes pass and turn into hours. He’s been in the same spot losing the ability to keep his eyes open. He wearily turns to look at the clock. It reads “5:29 AM”. His head lowers until he’s face down on the edge of the bed kneeling with the shoe still in hand.

Knock, knock, knock. Marlon is startled awake by banging at his door. He drags his body upright and meanders through the chaos from last night, not really remembering what happened. He opens the door. The sight of him shocks his neighbor.

“Another one of those nights?”, the neighbor interrogates.

He doesn’t muster a response just a befuddled glar.

“I just wanted to know if you’d heard about the bakery down the street. Apparently they got busted for some kind of psychoactives in their cakes.”, he claims.

“Crazy right?”

The neighbor gives an awkward grin and Marlon just slowly closes the door in his face. He turns around to see the mangled kitchen and all the cake on the floor. He steps over the mess and goes back to bed.