She licked the frosting from her finger, sweet as a promise and twice as buttery. Maybe a cake, bouncy-ball giggling wobbly tower of cake, would appease him. Feelings bruised, salved with vanilla, massaged with cream. The entire house smelled of sugar kisses and apologies. How could he resist? Stand near the oven, melt—melt—stirring with attention, never stopping. The spatula carved the mortar of the frosting like a skilled mason, rebuilding a toppled façade. A sculpture, a shrine to his senses, prone before him: offering. Foregoing manners, she licked the spoon directly: sugar for her, too, wouldn’t hurt anyone.
