4.
7.20.11
Tiramisu
Dominique & Louis
precious, admire, gallant
Tiramisu Tuesdays were the worst. Dominique liked to tell herself that it wasn't because when it was her turn to make the dessert, it tasted terrible.
"Too much espresso," Louis told her from his perch at the kitchen table. He wasn't even be looking at her as he said it—his eyes were always glued to whatever book he was going through that Tuesday.
Dominique grit her teeth and grabbed the wine bottle.
"You always put too much wine," he said casually, flipping through his precious book. "And don't soak the cookies too much. You always do that too."
"You do it, then!" Dominique wanted to shout. She wanted to slam the bottle of wine down onto the counter with a force that would shatter it and show Louis just how angry she was that he could make a better dish than she could, that he was smarter and more ambitious than her, that he was the most loved, the most admired, the gallant Louis Weasley, the prodigal child that she could never be who could make tiramisu like she never could no matter how much wine and how little coffee she put in, that no matter how much she tried, her tiramisu still tasted bitter and foul, just like how she felt when he was serving his to their delighted parents.
She didn't say anything, of course, she just listened to his patient directions. But Dominique, she was a star trying to outshine a much brighter one and one day, all her efforts would make her go supernova, to transcend brightness itself, to truly be the best.