Fresh For Everyone
Love means waiting.
Elena left for the office at eight. Sarah waved from the living room window, a coffee mug in her hand and her laptop open for a day of back-to-back calls.
The bottle of Guinness was in the laundry room, tucked behind an ironing board Sarah hadn’t unfolded in years.
Elena needed vanilla. She’d stop at the supermarket on the way home, bake the cake after Sarah went to bed. Salted Caramel Stout.
Sarah closed her laptop. Elena’s brake lights disappeared around the corner.
She had eight hours. She’d stashed a Guinness behind a tub of Elena’s untouched protein powder.
Sarah pulled up the recipe on her phone. Salted Caramel Stout Cake. She’d been thinking about it since August.
The market was ten minutes away.
Elena pushed through the market doors at 5:32 PM.
She held her phone in her left hand, the screen brightness at maximum. The recipe for Easy Salted Caramel Stout Cake looked like a threat. Underfoot, the tile was a blinding, antiseptic white. She grabbed a banana and a green tea from the aisle cap. A decent snack for the drive home.
She turned the corner at Aisle 4: Baking Needs.
She walked past the flour. She needed Madagascar vanilla. Not the imitation stuff in the plastic brown bottle.
"Excuse me," Elena said. She squeezed past a woman, eyes on the shelf.
The woman stood by the yeast, methodically checking the expiration dates on every packet. Her hands were spotted with age, the skin translucent like wet parchment. Her hair was the color of unbleached flour.
“The yeast won’t rise,” the woman mumbled. Her voice was a dry rattle. “Must be bad.”
“Sure,” Elena said. She grabbed a glass bottle of vanilla.
Elena reached the end of the aisle, turned left toward the dairy, and found herself back at the beginning of Aisle 4: Baking Needs.
Her throat constricted. She gripped the wire handle of her cart until the metal bit into her palms.
The woman in the cardigan was still there. She was still checking the yeast.
Elena ran. She moved past the salt. She shoved past the bags of chocolate chips. She reached the end and burst through the gap.
Baking Needs.
Elena looked at her phone. The screen flickered. A deep, jagged crack sprouted from the charging port and raced toward the top of the glass. The battery icon turned red. It vanished. The aluminum casing felt pitted and dull, like something buried in sand for a decade.
On the child-seat of her cart, the green banana was now a black, shriveled husk. It had fused to the plastic grid, leaking a dark, sweet-smelling ichor that dripped onto a bag of flour.
Elena stopped her cart next to the woman in the beige cardigan. Up close, the woman’s hands shook as she reached for the yeast. On her left ring finger, a silver band caught the light. It was hammered metal. A tiny, recessed diamond chip sat in the center.
Elena’s vision narrowed. She looked at her own left hand. The match was perfect.
“Sarah?” Elena’s voice came out as a dry croak.
The old woman turned. Her eyes were milky. The small mole just above her left eyebrow was exactly where it should be. She looked at Elena, but her gaze didn’t focus.
Her voice was a thin rasp. “I thought it would be a nice gesture. I just wanted to have everything ready by the time she got home from work. I thought I had plenty of time.”
Elena felt the floor tilt. Sarah hadn’t been working from home. She had been here, trapped in Aisle 4. Sarah had spent a lifetime waiting for Elena to come home.
“You must really love her.” Elena’s throat tightened. She couldn’t swallow.
“More than anything,” Sarah said.
Elena’s own joints began to click. A sharp pain bloomed in her lower back. She caught her reflection in the dead black slab of her screen. Under the fractures, a stranger stared back. Deep lines ran from the corners of her eyes to her jaw.
“It’s okay,” Elena said, her own hair fading to grey in the fluorescent light.
She held Sarah’s hand.
“I’ll help you check the dates.”
If you’re feeling inspired by Elena and Sarah’s dedication to the perfect anniversary gesture, you can try the recipe below. Just a quick heads-up, the recipe recommends a high-quality Madagascar vanilla. If it’s located in Aisle 4, keep walking.
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It’s part of my short story collection, Farrago: Volume 1. Purchase the twenty-two story collection here:
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