“The pineapples were delicious,” I said.
“Good, I knew they would be.”
“I made a cake from the leftovers, a pineapple macadamia cake, and I’m wondering if you want to share it with me when you finish up?”
“Oh, you’re so sweet!” she replied and touched my forearm, “I can finish up in ten.”
I had noticed two sets of tables and chairs beneath a spreading mango tree beside the fruit barn. The tree’s broad, dappled canopy offered cool relief from the blazing afternoon sun. I set out plates and serviettes and arranged the cake carefully. The aroma of the cake was enhanced by a drizzle of strawberry puree over airy, whipped cream. Each slice, placed in an individual bowl, looked like a miniature work of art. She joined me soon after. Seated together in that shaded nook, I asked softly, “Did you grow up here?”
“Yes. Our family has had the farm for sixty years,” Lucia replied, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “I moved away for uni, but then I returned.”
“It must have been wonderful growing up in the country,” I murmured.
“It was. Lots of freedom,” she agreed.
I took a bite of the cake—the sponge was moist, the whipped cream light, and the strawberries burst with a tang, sending a tingle across my tongue. Watching Lucia take a bite, I couldn’t help but imagine how her bright red, luscious lips might taste in a kiss.
“You know the way to my heart,” she whispered, leaning closer to me, “a pretty face, a kind soul, and impeccable cake-making skills.”
My heart pounded at her words.
“Well, you are in luck—I make cakes for a living,” I replied confidently.
Then, she moved closer until there was no space between us. In that tender, charged moment, she kissed me—a gentle, lingering kiss that spoke of promise.
I pulled away slightly, our faces still close, and softly asked, “What is your favorite cake?”
With a mischievous smile, she whispered, “Red velvet—but I also love pineapple upside-down cake.”
“I’ll have to make it for you,” I promised, sealing my vow with another tender kiss.
In that perfect, sunlit moment, the sweet promise of summer and the start of something new hung in the air.
Bar Story by Melissa Ingoldsby
He felt tired. He felt like shit.
He got out of jail today.
It wasn’t for a violent crime,per se, but it was for computer fraud. And also, he had punched his boss.
The asshole boss at his job (where he had committed said fraud) had tried to extort him. Buthewas the one who had gone to jail, not him.
Tegan needed a drink.
Badly.
* * * *
Just a few miles downtown from where Tegan was staying (at a friend’s house), there was a lonely bartender who owned a bar.
Hewas tired.
He felt like shit.
He snuck shots of tequila sometimes in the bathroom near his office whenever happy couples would come in, or random patrons would walk out together—finding a connection amidst the hole-in-the-wall, outdated atmosphere. The slightly dark bar with neon lights all over the place was a hot spot for married couples especially, and it drove Moe crazy.
He was so tired, he didn’t evenwanta drink anymore.
