She came to visit him almost every Monday, 3 PM on the dot.
He ran the little bakery in the town, and he also sold all the things one would need to bake: utensils, sugar, flour, decorations, pans, you name it.
She bought in bulk from him each time she came, going away with pounds of every type of sugar imaginable and cute new cookie cutters that came with each shipment.
Sometimes she needed help to carry everything to her car, shyly asking him if he would be so kind? Of course he would.
Her skin was like fine cream: smooth and soft and light, shading into the most desirable of hues when she would move. Who wouldn't want to touch it? Especially when she had freckles tinged of ground cinnamon that spattered across her body like flour when you bake.
Her hair, naturally in waves and ringlets that brushed the deep scoop of her collar bone, was the color of the sun. It was irresistible sometimes, when he would see her across the street at a different store. Her lips were like the icing flowers he would decorate wedding cakes with, but he was sure they tasted better. Her eyes were like blue candy buttons, but warm and sweet like cookies right out of the oven or well-made fudge.
Today her hair was down, shining on a cloudless day and decorated with a pink ribbon made of lace and tulle. Her dress went to her knees, also pink and sheer and ending in a red stripe; the slip beneath it was so light pink that it almost looked white. She had smiled at him with those lips glossed over with sweet pink that smelled like strawberries and wondered if he had any new cake pans? Oh yes! Of course! This one is shaped like a bear, and this makes a two-layered heart cake.
She took both of them, running her fingers over the edges of them as though they were soft as rose petals as her face softened as to that of someone in love.
"Do you bake a lot? I see you in here every Monday."
Her face flushed pink as she paid for the pans, putting them into her lace-lined bag.
Everything about her was sweet; the only thing that would top it like a cherry was if she smelled like vanilla. But no, she only smelled of flowers like most women.
"I own a pharmacy nearby, but I love to bake at home.."
Whipped cream! Her voice was light and soft with innocently fluffy tones. His was like hot-chocolate (as most women he knew had told him): smooth and warm and rich.
they mixed so well together.
She left before he could say anything, but he saw her take the pans she had bought out of her bag once in her car, running her fingers over the edges and smiling, prior to driving off.
The next time he saw her, she was carrying a box decorated with (of course) lace and tulle, soft whites and pinks as her trademark.
She came in to buy a bow to top it with, and this time she smelled like cookies.
When he asked her where she was going with such a pretty package, she blushed and smiled sweetly at him.
"A friend of mine really likes chocolate chip cookies, so I thought a boring day at work would be a little brighter with some of them around."
And then she was dancing out of his store again, across the street and into another building.
She was back next Tuesday, scented like the cake she undoubtedly held in another decorative box.
It was for another friend, in the same building, and for a second he almost felt jealous.
He made a comment that his favorite dessert was ginger bread.
She smiled at him and winked before skipping out just like before, shouting back that hers was saltwater taffy.
A couple of weeks later and she hadn't even come in for ingredients, but she was back the day he began to miss her, carrying two boxes wrapped in her trademark colors.
One was full of hot, moist ginger bread and topped with a cream cheese based icing.
And it was for him.
His jealousy melted away, even as she went to give a home-made cheesecake to the friend in the other building.
"I missed seeing you around the store."
She giggled, gently sliding the two-layer heart-shaped ginger bread onto his counter.
"I missed you to."
She liked him too, then.
They began exchanging sweets and baking tips, both laughing and smiling all the time around each other.
One day he made fruit parfaits in the hopes that she would sit down for lunch with him and he could tell her how much he loved her and her cotton candy ways; but she never came that day. She didn't come the next day.
Or the next.
_._Or the next.
_._._Or the next.
Months passed by, and he gave up making sweets everyday just to sell them when she failed to show.
Finally, he spotted her across the street at the building her friend she baked for must work at, a man he didn't know walking beside her and their fingers linked.
She was wearing the same sundress as on the day he sold her the cake pans she had loved so much, only now it was much fuller than he remembered.
She was round and tight, like a ripe melon; her skin glowed like honey when spread over toast and given to a person you love.
And her icing-sweet lips were not his to savor so delicately.
Her laughter still rang out soft and wonderful, like the scent of vanilla, and her hair stilogo looked like the sun.
He closed down the shop and sat alone in his apartment.
His tears tasted like saltwater taffy.