“Just try and stop me, sis.”
As timid and socially awkward as Cynthia was, she was my closest friend in the family. She was a solid rock I knew I could depend on when push came to shove. She would tremble and shake and look ready to shatter into a billion pieces, but if she had to, she’d put on her superwoman cape and leap into a volcano to save any one of us. She was only two years older than me, and we’d been inseparable my entire childhood. She really seemed closer to a breaking point than I’d ever seen her, at least since she’d survived her own trauma several years ago. The list of things I needed to feel guilty for seemed to have been given fertilizer.
Customers formed a steady stream for the next couple of hours. A little rush here and there, but only enough to help keep my brain away from places it shouldn’t go. Between generic “glad you’re back” conversations with many of our regulars and two trays ofmilhojas, I could almost believe the past months were merely a terrible but short-lived blip on my lifeline. Almost.
“So, these little hot cross buns things are a dessert or a dinner roll type thingy?” I’d just reentered the front room, and the woman’s loud, nasal voice was like nails on a chalkboard, her hillbilly accent not helping the sensation. Luckily, she was the only customer at the moment. She seemed capable of driving other patrons off in droves.
“They’re a type of sweet bread, not the meat kind. Traditionally, they are often served at Christmastime, but really, everybody—”
“Well, some of them are pink and yellow. Does that mean they’re watermelon and banana flavored?” The large woman leaned forward, her ample breasts pressing against the glass front of the display.
Cynthia put on her “dealing with the gringa” smile and spoke slowly. “No, they’re not watermelon or banana. Pan dulce is just a—”
“And what’s this one with the purple sugar on top of it?” The lady ran pudgy fingers through her graying blonde hair. Before Cynthia could attempt a reply, the woman whirled to face the adjacent case and looked at themilhojas, her floral dress flaring out to reveal startling orange-socked feet stuffed into white sandals. “Oh! These look delicious! All those layers! What is that between them? Bavarian cream?”
Cynthia always impressed me with this type of customer. No matter how inane the person became, Cynthia’s smile would get bigger while her voice got slower and softer. I would just tell the person to let me know when she’d made up her mind and walk away. I was willing to bet this woman would ask a billion more questions, only to decide all of it was a little tooexoticor, better yet,ethnic, for her Midwestern palate and then head promptly to McDonald’s to get a few orders of Cinnamon Melts.
Cynthia let out a gentle laugh. “No, it’s not Bavarian cream. It’s a type of—”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I love Bavarian cream!” She turned away from Cynthia and looked at me. “You can put it in anything and it makes it utterly delectable.” Her mud-colored eyes held mine, her voice taking on what was intended as a sultry tone. “Or put it onanything. Don’t you think?”
I couldn’t keep my eyes from bulging. I glanced at Cynthia, whose expression matched my own, then looked past her to search for Mom. Thankfully, she must have been back in the kitchen. I don’t think I could have handled my mother witnessing her son having a middle-aged fashion victim try to entice him with erotic pastry propositions.
The woman stepped forward, ridiculously wetting her forefinger in her mouth and then pulling it slowly between her lips. In another stride or two, she was directly in front of me, her massive girth once again pressed into the glass display that separated us. “Don’t you think Bavarian cream has the most wonderful uses?” She ran her wet finger in a swirling pattern on the glass, leaving a trail of her saliva glistening in the overhead lighting.
I heard Cynthia give a suppressed laugh. Typically, she was better about these things, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the woman on the other side of the case to glare at her.
Oblivious to the responses she was eliciting, both of hilarity and repulsion, the woman’s voice lowered further into a phone-sex rasp. It came out more of a bullfrog croak. “As delectable—” At this word she paused and ran the tip of her tongue across the front of her teeth, making a circle over the top and then wiping over the lower. “—as Bavarian cream is, I’m sure it’s not comparable toyourcream.”
At this, Cynthia’s stifled breath exploded in one giant, very un-Cynthia-like guffaw. Her hands shot up and clamped over her mouth.
“Madam, I don’t think this is the right bakery for you. There is—”
She leaned closer. For such a large woman, I wasn’t sure how she was able to contort her body to lean so far over the display case. “Come now, handsome man. I bet your cream is as delectable as a sprinkling of Spor.”
I flinched. A glance over told me that either Cynthia was too busy trying to contain her hysteria or she simply had no idea what Spor was. Why would she?
I looked back at the woman. The sultry cow-eyed expression was gone, and she held my gaze with a fierce intensity. “I think that’s what I’d like to wrap up in one of those paper bags to take home with me. Just a good big helping of your Spor cream.”
Against my better instinct, I leaned closer to the woman, my brows furrowed, my eyes meeting hers, refusing to look away.It couldn’t be!
She stared at me for a few moments longer. “Actually, I don’t think I am in the mood for any pastries today.” She ran her hands down her body, exaggerating each curve. “I’m trying to watch my figure.” Another second and she broke her gaze, turned, giving a little wave of wriggling fingers to Cynthia, and walked out of the store.
Cynthia made it until the second the woman was out of sight of the large front windows, then broke into hysterical laughter, tears instantly running down her cheeks. I was still staring where the lady had disappeared.
Mom walked back into the room, another tray of pastries in her hands. She looked back and forth from my stunned expression to Cynthia’s flushed face as she began to wheeze for air between laughs. A smile began to grow at the corner of her mouth. “What in the world is going on out here? What did I miss?”
I managed to tear my eyes away from the window but couldn’t force myself to form any words.
She set the tray on the glass, a few inches from the wet-willie trail. “Well?” She was already beginning to chuckle, even without the details, feeding off Cynthia’s mounting hysteria.
I shook my head. “Just a crazy customer, Mom. She didn’t seem to be able to find any pastries she wanted to buy.”
At this, Cynthia’s laughter got even louder, and she bent, hands on her knees, back shaking with convulsions.
“I’m gonna take a break, go for a little walk.” I gestured to Cynthia. “I’m sure witchy cackle over there can fill you in on all the details.”
Without removing the apron, I walked around the counter and left the store.
