City Delivery
By Sue Ellis
Adam was awestruck by the seven-layer cake at table 27 in the Convention Center. The paint job rivaled anything he'd seen in Street Rod Magazine. Airbrushed, the bottom layer started out midnight blue, but faded to almost white as it spiraled to the top.
"Thank God!" A dark haired girl with what looked like powdered sugar on her nose grabbed the parcel from him and tore it open.
"Through rain, crowds and standing water--Adam Taylor, at your service." He'd have faked a bow, but she wasn't looking at him.
"Just my luck," she whined. "July's supposed to be the driest month of the year in Portland, but nooo." She impatiently circled a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Let Alice enter a cake decorating contest and we get a monsoon."
"It's almost stopped raining." Adam offered helpfully. It was a lie, but she looked like she needed a lie.
"Steam still rising off the sidewalks?"
"Well . . yeah."
"I'm sunk." She pulled a packet from the box, snipped the top off with scissors and squeezed the some of the contents into a bowl.
"What's that stuff?"
"Ganache. Now go away."
He couldn't move. Her elegant, long-fingered hands began mixing different colors into separate bowls, sculpting exotic looking flowers. "Dry. Oh please dry," she chanted over the blossoms as she laid them out on waxed paper.
"So humidity's the problem, right?"
She didn't answer him, but pulled another box from under the work table and opened it. The sculptural pieces she carefully unwrapped from it looked like blown glass, but he knew they had to be made from sugar.
Her shoulders drooped as she laid them out one by one. "Darn! They're all sticky."
"They're still beautiful, Alice." Adam moved in closer. Tears glistened in her eyes. He suddenly wanted to kiss her at the intersection of salty tears and waxy, red upper lip. She was a little plump, not his usual type. It was just that she was so intense--and those talented hands. He started picturing her airbrushing orange flames on the Harley's gas tank. Maybe he could get her to wear a tight t-shirt when she rode behind him--show a sweet roll at the top of her jeans like a real biker chick.
- - -
Sue Ellis lives and writes near Spokane, Washington. Her short stories and poems have previously appeared at such places as The Shine Journal, Flash Me Magazine, Ken*Again, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Christian Science Monitor.
By Sue Ellis
Adam was awestruck by the seven-layer cake at table 27 in the Convention Center. The paint job rivaled anything he'd seen in Street Rod Magazine. Airbrushed, the bottom layer started out midnight blue, but faded to almost white as it spiraled to the top.
"Thank God!" A dark haired girl with what looked like powdered sugar on her nose grabbed the parcel from him and tore it open.
"Through rain, crowds and standing water--Adam Taylor, at your service." He'd have faked a bow, but she wasn't looking at him.
"Just my luck," she whined. "July's supposed to be the driest month of the year in Portland, but nooo." She impatiently circled a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Let Alice enter a cake decorating contest and we get a monsoon."
"It's almost stopped raining." Adam offered helpfully. It was a lie, but she looked like she needed a lie.
"Steam still rising off the sidewalks?"
"Well . . yeah."
"I'm sunk." She pulled a packet from the box, snipped the top off with scissors and squeezed the some of the contents into a bowl.
"What's that stuff?"
"Ganache. Now go away."
He couldn't move. Her elegant, long-fingered hands began mixing different colors into separate bowls, sculpting exotic looking flowers. "Dry. Oh please dry," she chanted over the blossoms as she laid them out on waxed paper.
"So humidity's the problem, right?"
She didn't answer him, but pulled another box from under the work table and opened it. The sculptural pieces she carefully unwrapped from it looked like blown glass, but he knew they had to be made from sugar.
Her shoulders drooped as she laid them out one by one. "Darn! They're all sticky."
"They're still beautiful, Alice." Adam moved in closer. Tears glistened in her eyes. He suddenly wanted to kiss her at the intersection of salty tears and waxy, red upper lip. She was a little plump, not his usual type. It was just that she was so intense--and those talented hands. He started picturing her airbrushing orange flames on the Harley's gas tank. Maybe he could get her to wear a tight t-shirt when she rode behind him--show a sweet roll at the top of her jeans like a real biker chick.
- - -
Sue Ellis lives and writes near Spokane, Washington. Her short stories and poems have previously appeared at such places as The Shine Journal, Flash Me Magazine, Ken*Again, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Christian Science Monitor.
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