My Madness Only for My Love

Penelope Tuft wasn't your typical bread cook. While her neighbors produced blueberry biscuits and chocolate chip treats, Penelope's manifestations were works of palatable workmanship. Her baked goods were blasts of variety and surface, challenging classification with unusual names like "Starlight Scones" and "Joyous beyond words Cupcakes."

Penelope's frenzy, in any case, was saved exclusively for Arthur. Arthur, a fairly hesitant bookkeeper with an inclination for beige pullovers and flawlessly brushed hair, was the object of Penelope's most stupendous culinary manifestations. Consistently, she'd leave an unexpected baked good close to home, a colorful statement of her flighty love.

Her most memorable creation was a "Affection Letter Croissant," a heart-molded cake tidied with consumable sparkle and loaded up with a raspberry rosewater jam. Unfortunate Arthur, at first puzzled, was furtively enchanted. He'd cautiously snack on the cake, the pleasantness a glaring difference to his typical tasteless cereal.

Next came the "Cupid's Bolt Éclair," loaded up with a pistachio cream the shade of a spring sky. Arthur, an ongoing overthinker, stressed over the expected results of these sweet messages. However, as he enjoyed the smooth joy, a grin played all the rage. He really wanted to be captivated by this lady who talked through cakes.

Penelope's manifestations became bolder. There was a transcending "Eccentricity Cake" embellished with turned sugar mists and marzipan birds, a "Orchestra of Flavors Pie" loaded up with a mixture of products of the soil, and a "Secret Admirer Cupcake" that held a small note admitting her sentiments.

Arthur's office mates turned out to be progressively inquisitive about his abrupt noontime nibble breaks. At some point, his collaborator, Brenda, a lady who employed calculation sheets like weapons, found him gazing insightfully at a "Perfect ten Donut" (frosted and finished with a scaled down boat).

"Who's sending you these, Arthur?" Brenda asked, a dubious flicker in her eye.

Arthur, ever the bothered soul, stammered out a dubious clarification about a "far off family member." Brenda, a carefully prepared office tattle, wasn't persuaded. The following day, she positioned herself outside Arthur's, not entirely settled to get the "relative" in the demonstration.

Shockingly, it was anything but a family member. It was Penelope, a hurricane of variety in a sunflower yellow dress and a straw cap enhanced with an outpouring of silk strips. Brenda watched, dismayed, as Penelope left a dazzling blue box close to home and skirted away, leaving a path of giggling afterward.

Brenda faced Arthur the following day. Confronted with approaching openness, Arthur held nothing back about Penelope and her "eatable love letters." Brenda, shockingly, wasn't critical. All things being equal, she saw Arthur's secret flash, touched off by Penelope's special type of warmth.

"You ought to ask her out," Brenda proclaimed, a devilish shine supplanting her standard harshness. "Life's excessively short for beige sweatshirts and dull bites."

Furnished with Brenda's support, Arthur at last summoned the mental fortitude to act. He searched out Penelope at her pastry kitchen, "The Confectionary Bedlam," a safe house of colorful cakes and unusual treats. Penelope was puzzled when she saw him, her cheeks cleaned with flour like a pink blush.

Arthur, to his own amazement, tracked down the words. He talked about his underlying bewilderment, his mystery get a kick out of her cakes, and the manner in which her frenzy had stirred up his anticipated life. In a voice scarcely a murmur, he asked her out for supper.

Penelope's eyes gushed. "You enjoyed them?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"Adored them," Arthur replied, "each insane, bright nibble."

Penelope's grin could illuminate the entire pastry shop. That evening, they went for supper, not to an extravagant eatery, but rather to a little frozen yogurt shop with rainbow sprinkles on the walls and a jukebox playing jazz. Penelope, interestingly, introduced her sentiments not on a plate, but rather with a bashful grin and a hand going after his.

Arthur's life wasn't beige any longer. It was an energetic mix of flavors, all because of Penelope Crest and her franticness, held exclusively for her affection. They say the heart needs what it needs, and for Penelope's situation, it needed to admit its affection through an ensemble of sugar, zest, and everything pleasant.