The Death of Me
I love Kajola’s cake. I mean the chocolatey one that usually earned a spot by the left corner of the grand display shelf which greeted customers and passersby regardless of the familiarity or lack of. It is remotely related to the fact that its taste is not dissimilar to a brownie, just a slight shrug of intentionality, in its recipe shot it from being the latter. I did not mind at all. I loved it, still.
The traverse past the bakery would always be tagged my ‘Walk of Shame’, but that was courageous enough for me. I mean, with a lot going on these days, shouldn’t the mere admission of such weakness to one’s self be labelled a show of strength? Whether or not it felt or looked so, I lapped at it at will.
When jokingly told that my sweet tooth would be the death of me, I’d cock my shiny head in that manner that spoke of thoughtful reflection of my supposed recrimination. Then, I’d scratch lazily at the day-old growth of beard under my chin and shrug off comically, as if to say that I wasn’t one to bear such never-to-happen responsibility.
As much as I loved to stride out of the bakery with this prized possession, I was very aware of a shadow that loomed silently at the very edge of my anticipation. But I chose to walk the path of ignorance despite the faithful dread at the base of my spine.
One cool evening, the moon hung brightly from the whispery curtain of the clouds. I should have noticed, but all I did was break out in anxious sweat. I grew grumpy while counting each step it took to get me to the bakery. I was oblivious of the heavy flow of traffic, vehicular and human, or the string of drama acted out by street thugs and roadside hawkers. My eyes were fixated on the neon ‘Kajola’ sign right ahead that called out to my need. I could all but taste its richness on my tongue. At that moment, life was tough on me.
I made it in record time before its closing hour, and almost ran into Yvonne. Her nametag glowed, forcing us to make an awkward acquaintance. I grunted my greeting and proceeded to walk past her. She sleekly matched my paces and stood in my path. I grew impatient as I had to have my cake. My gaze swept hurriedly across the depleting display shelves behind her. I was comforted by the sight of ‘Kajola’s cake’ which premiered that evening. I casually sidestepped her slender frame and made a beeline for it.
Taking my purchase to the counter, my heart sank to find her behind it with a ‘60-watts-come-hither’ smile trained on me. She greeted me with lust dripping from her voice while she made a huge show of placing the cake into a carrier bag. My eyes darted across the shop but found no one. I sighed heavily; doomsday had finally arrived. Just when I thought it was over, she appeared beside me and groped me.
“If you make any sound, I’ll scream.” She said.
With a large sliding door on the lobby’s far end screening us from the main bakery, I tried to talk sense into her in a muffled tone, but she was determined to have her way. Rage replaced despair and became my distraction as I awaited the assault. Suddenly, the main door chimed, bringing in another customer, and I was spared.
Today, I walked past the bakery. For a split second, I almost went in to get my precious cake but decided against it.
I love Kajola’s cake. I mean the chocolatey one that usually earned a spot by the left corner of the grand display shelf. But since I’d rather not be a willing victim, my sweet tooth must suffer.
