Red Velvet
The kitchen looked as if a storm had passed through it. Blotches of flour covered the table, making an irregular patchwork of white and walnut. Bonnie tucked back a stray curl, messy fingers leaving streaks of batter into her hair.
She always got batter on herself, despite all precautions. In those early days of marriage, Max would whisper, “You're fit to be eaten.” And then proceed to lick the batter off her. Bonnie blushed at the memory and proceeded to whisk the batter with a ferociousness that was in complete contrast to the beautiful memory. The batter frothed under her quick fingers, scattering her dress and the table. Oblivious to the mess, she continued.
The place smelled of eggs, vanilla, and desperation. The mixer had broken down. Bonnie didn't know how to fix it. It had been Max's job. Now the mixer lay discarded like yesterday's leftovers, while her nerves screamed with each stroke of the whisk, cutting and folding the thick batter.
Satisfied, she added a few drops of red color to the mix. The shiny drops lay on the surface of the mixture in stark contrast to the pale batter, like pomegranate arils or the ruby drop earrings Max had given her on their first anniversary. Or, she shuddered at the memory, the blood drops that had pooled under his inert hands five years ago as he lay in the bathtub, unresponsive to her screams. She had begged him to come back to her! What if he lost a job? They still had each other.
Bonnie shook her head to stop the images. She had to concentrate on the cake. The red velvet was Max's favorite, and it had to be ready before midnight. The batter soon turned red with further whisking, which she poured into a greased tray and popped into the oven.
The cream cheese, sugar, and butter Bonnie was whisking stood in peaks when the oven dinged. The cake came out perfect, scarlet and velvety, just like its name. She smeared the cream cheese over it until none of the red showed and decorated it with swirls and rosettes, just like Max loved. Once the cake was done she set to cleaning the kitchen. How could one celebrate in such a mess?
Midnight saw the cake ready at the kitchen table, clean and covered with a fresh gingham tablecloth. A lone candle stuck in the cake cast its tangerine shades in the kitchen. Bonnie sat, clad in her new off-shoulder scarlet dress, the satin folds caressing her skin. The bell struck twelve. A gust of wind whooshed through the little room. The candle flickered and went out as if blown out on purpose.
In the darkness, something licked her lips and whispered into her ears,
“Still fit to be eaten.”
“Happy Birthday, my love,” Bonnie laughed. Max was here, just like he had come for his birthday the last four years.
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