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My cheeks tinge in warmth and pride. He’s right, over the years I have often been the only woman in kitchens. “Thank you, it’s just a passion of mine.”
His face whitens before he lets loose a chaotic howl. “You are good people, Miss Cinnamon. I will always be here if you need anything else.” He swipes some space on the cluttered table, gently setting the box down and showing me what’s inside.
“An upgraded crock pot? I didn’t even think of that, that’s perfect. I was planning to make curry too!”
The man’s honey eyes twinkle in delight. “Glad you like it. Pretty simple. There’s a dial on the side, once it hits zero. Kaboom!” He laughs.
“Ha, yes, kaboom! That’s when it will be ready?” I ask for clarification.
“Yes, girlie. Just make sure you don’t drop it. Don’t separate the ceramic from the metal. Could be a disaster.” He closes the box, shoves it into my arms, and then he leaves back to the garage.
The thing is heavy. Heavier than any crockpot I have ever used in my life.
Must be some new fancy tech.
Pushing the thought aside, I make my way back to my car.
Time to go make my next meals!
30
My Bowl is Cracked. The Water is Gone.
Reuben
Where is she?
The only car that has pulled up to the meeting spot is an old clunker. I had her meet at a distant acquaintance’s mechanic shop. His day job was on cars, but at night he was an explosives expert. If anyone could make the device and slip it inside a ceramic pot it would be him.
And he was fast to boot.
I also vouched for her, so if she didn’t show up…
Where is she? Why has that car been there for so long? It must be asking for a repair.
My impatience peaks, and I circle the block for the thirtieth time, keeping my attention on the building as I do.
Crash!
Not my bad luck! Not here. Not now!
My head jerks forward, and I find I have somehow managed to rear end the clunker as it pulled out of the mechanic’s shop.
What the fuck.
I don’t want to deal with this. I don’t need Cinnamon spooked if she sees a wreck outside the meeting spot.
Jumping out of my vehicle, I march towards the beat up one. My hand poised on the glass.
It’s a woman bent over, examining a box that is on the passenger side floor.
I tug her door open, impatient and needing to hurry up this process.
“Excuse me—” I choke as the woman jumps and twists towards me.
It’s her.
My throat dries, my entire world shifts and cycles and flips and turns.
