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God, the last half of her shift was going by at a painfully slow pace!
Thirty minutes more, Dana Wainsfield told herself as she glared at the clock on the cash register screen. Just half an hour more. In half an hour, she could take off her name tag — “Welcome to Catered Cook; My Name is Dana” — and her smock — “Catering to Your Home Cooking Needs!” — and go home.
Dana, like the vast amount of low-wage workers, didn’t much like her job. She had bigger dreams than retail. Unlike the vast amount of fake bakers and culinary hobbyists that trolled her store, Dana was a chef.
Well, aspiring, really.
She’d done the classes. Had aced school. But, the problem was, no one was hiring right now. Not out-of-work, inexperienced gastronomical snobs anyway.
Which was fine, she supposed. What she really wanted to do was write. Cookbooks, that is. She was the next Julia Powell, she knew it.
Her boyfriend, an odd acquisition she’d found working at the bookstore on the first level while scoffing at the “15-minute dinner” books, thought so too. With a metabolism that kept him lanky no matter what he ate, he gobbled up her dishes with a gusto that she found incredibly attractive. He had an abundance of good taste and a good appetite, two qualities she sought the way other girls did muscles or money.
The problem wasn’t her cooking. She had books full of recipes, all tested and perfected by her refined taste.
Publishing, that was her problem.
It seemed publishers weren’t looking for no-name, out-of-work culinary snobs either. Dana sighed and slumped over to lean against the counter’s glass case. Which was why she was here waiting for thirty more miserable minutes to pass.
Twiddling her fingers against the glass to whatever Muzak was playing over the store’s speakers, Dana looked up when she heard giggling in the front corner of the store.
Used to high school shoplifters who pathologically thought it was cool to stuff peelers and paring knives and potholders shaped like kittens into their pockets, Dana was surprised to see a couple — somewhere in their early thirties — fighting a fit of laughter over bakeware.
She peered as the blond man, a slicked-back studious sort in a sweater vest and jeans, picked up a classic scraper with a long, cherry red handle and a gleaming white rubber head. He waved it oddly, as if testing the weight, the minuscule heft, of it. He shrugged before handing it over to her.
Dana’s brow shot up as the black woman, a mod model type wrapped in quirky vintage classics, gripped the handle hard before thwacking it hard in her hand, the rubber making a solid thud against her palm. She giggled. He giggled.
Dana shook her head, confused.
Then the woman did something odd and unusual, something Dana had never seen anyone ever do in the year and a half she’d been working at Catered Cook.
The woman twirled her long, perfectly manicured finger, an impish grin spreading across her face.
The man rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Dana felt an unease when the woman pressed her hands together, still clutching the scraper, to beg. “Please,” she heard the woman’s deep, timbric voice plead. “Pretty please with a ripe, unpopped cherry on top.”
The man sighed and quickly checked around. Dana, unthinking, squeezed herself against the wall, hoping she was well-hidden by the shelved aisles between them, her heart in her throat, pounding a staccato cadence that she couldn’t quite keep up with.
“Fine,” she heard the man acquiesce, pointing a warning finger at the grinning woman. “Once.”
“Thank you!” She jumped and gave an excited, little yip. “Now...” She made the twirling motion again.
The man heaved another heavy sigh and turned, leaning against one of the shelves heavily laden with mixing bowls and rolling pins. Bent slightly forward with his back to her, he crossed his arms in front of him, looking very put out.
Still gleeful, despite her companion’s dour acceptance, the woman did the same weird waving he had. Then with a graceful dance step, she swung her hand back like a tennis player and smacked him with it.
On the butt.
The blow made just a tiny, muted thunk — really just a sound too small for all that effort — but it resonated impossibly loud in Dana’s head.
Dana just blinked, balked, not believing that she was seeing this. People were going to touch food with those, for God’s sake!
She ought to have stopped them. Asked them to leave or called security to escort them out. Instead, she watched as the man and the woman both shrugged, chuckled, and set the shiny, red scraper back in the bucket with all the others.
The woman, with wide, wondrous eyes, studied the store’s wares like a child would a candy store. Squealing, she lifted a jumbo slotted spatula, meant for turning delicate dishes like pancakes or fish. Fingering the three open lines running down the thin, wide head reverently, her smile turned thoughtful with just a pinch of malice.
Hiding the tool behind her back, she snuck up on the man, her faux calf-skin boots silent on the store’s floor. As her companion sorted through the assorted serving spoons, forks, and ladles, the woman stealthily bent back the turner’s head — the thin metal neck tense as it stretched — before she let it snap like a shot against his shoulder.
The man yelped and rubbed the stinging skin, turning to glare accusingly at her. With a vicious smirk of his own, he snatched up two large bamboo serving spoons, lightweight but durable, resistant against staining, warping, and cracking. With one in each hand, he wielded them like weapons, twirling in graceful arcs like some kind of Williams-Sonoma ninja.
They sparred for a bit, laughingly smacking whatever bit of each other they could reach.
But then the man stopped, his hands and weapons dropping, suddenly slack.
The woman turned, curious when the man strode forward past her, shoving the spoons at her absentmindedly. As if a hallelujah chorus was playing while he walked, he stopped, awed, in front of the new holiday display featuring the matching three-piece bamboo cutting board set.
Reaching out, he grabbed the small, rectangular cheese board by the handy, lightweight handle, swinging it slowly like a Ping-Pong player in a pool of water. Then, with a bit more excitement, he did the same with the medium-sized bread board and then finally the large, ten-by-fifteen inch cutting board, hefting the light, but awkwardly weighted tool in one hand.
The tall, sweater-vested man turned, the boards all clutched tight to his chest, looking like a ten-year-old in a toy store a week before Christmas. He looked at the woman, his mouth set in a silly, simply charming pout and his eyes shining with want.
The woman, who’d cleverly snatched a store basket, held it out for him with an amused, maternal nod, welcoming the set along with the spatula and spoons.
With an absolutely evil grin, the woman slung the basket over her elbow and reached for the set of decorative wine bottle stoppers.
Dana had always thought they looked like cork-bottomed bishops that belonged more on a chessboard than a wine bottle, but apparently the woman saw something entirely different as she fingered the tapered stopper, running her fingers up and down its smooth, rounded curves and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at him.
The man paled and froze, horrified, before he backed away shaking his head determinedly.
The woman, undaunted, followed wagging the palm-sized piece at him tauntingly.
Dana fought a giggle of her own while the woman in chunky, four-inch heels chased the indignant man through the aisles.
Reaching the grill section, the man grabbed the black silicone handle of a chrome meat lifter, wielding the short, squat pitchfork with a devilish gleam of revenge that matched the glint the overhead lights cast off the lifter’s long, sharp, near-indestructible prongs.
With a shocked squeak, the woman stopped suddenly, the now forgotten stopper falling from her hand. She reached out, grabbing her own tool, a pair of meat handlers that she slipped on her knuckles like claws. Growling at him with a playful swipe, she brandished them like a comic book hero or a horror film monster.
The man turned to run again until he noticed that the woman was more intrigued by the handlers themselves — the design, the shape, the smooth, slightly sharp feel of them — than she was in chasing or dueling him.
He watched as she ran the claws, blunted but hard, along the bare length of her arms. His gray eyes widened when he caught the shiver that slid slick down her spine.
Grabbing his own pair, he fit his large hands in the handles, gripping them in his fists before running them teasingly along her shoulders and back, eliciting a throaty chuckle from her as she arched her back like a cat into the tool’s touch.
With a satisfied grin, he pulled the handlers off and slid them into the basket. Smirking back at him, she slipped her own pair with their other purchases too.
The couple giggled and made their way down the food aisles, picking up jars of pickled vegetables and jams and studying bags of gourmet cookies and all-natural crisps.
The woman stopped in front of the tasting table, sniffing the ramekins of fragrantly flavored olive oils. Shrugging, she dipped a strip of torn French bread into a dish before popping it into her mouth. She perked up and grinned.
Dana understood why. The rosemary lemon flavored olive oil featured today was bright and fresh, definitely one of Dana’s favorites. In charge of which products made it to the table and which didn’t, Dana eagerly watched the woman sample and savor each ramekin. Dana could tell from the scrunch of her face that the woman didn’t seem to like the smoky heat of the roasted pepper oil, much preferring the zing of the ginger-infused one. She lingered on the lavender, cocking her head to the side and smacking her mouth as she tried to decide how she felt about it. Dana felt it unfair that she couldn’t drizzle it over a dish of vanilla ice cream for the woman so she could get a feel for its full effect.
The man peered over the woman’s shoulder, the mascarpone of his skin covering the rich pecan-glaze of hers. Dana watched her slip a piece of lavender-oil soaked bread into his shallot-shaded mouth. He closed his eyes and licked his lips. Dana could practically taste the bread’s decadent, floral flavor on her tongue. She imagined the scent surrounding them, reminiscent of lavish parties and rich feasts.
She fed him another piece of bread, the oil dribbling down her knuckles. Grabbing her hand, he slicked his tongue over her finger. Even from her hiding spot, Dana could see heat bloom in both their eyes. The woman lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his, tasting the treat on both their tongues.
Dana should walk away. Turn around. Close her eyes. But she couldn’t. So caught up in the fantasy of scent, taste, and touch she knew they were experiencing, Dana wanted her piece of it too. She wanted to feel the soft insides of the bread, so full and heavy with oil, on her tongue. Wanted that rough crust to bite the roof of her mouth as flavor bloomed along her taste buds.
She was so lost in the flood of imagined sensations that she wasn’t even shocked — in her mind, she encouraged — when the woman first looked one way and then the other, making sure the store was empty, before taking a bit of soaked bread and painting her palm with the lavender oil. Dana licked her lips at the sheen left on the woman’s fingers that shimmered as she studied it under the store’s florescent lights.
Dana knew it was coming, but still her breath caught when the woman pressed herself against the man’s back and dipped her hand beneath the waistband of his jeans. She watched the man’s gray eyes glaze over and his standing body almost sink into her touch. His head fell back onto the strong shelf of her shoulder as she stroked his length. Dana could see his chest rise and fall in heavy breaths, inhaling the oil’s luxurious scent.
But then he stopped her. Wrapping his hand around the woman’s forearm, he pulled her hand from his pants, his erection pressing insistent against his zipper.
His eyes never left hers as he licked her palm, his tongue a strong, wet stroke on her skin. His hand slid up her arm to twist his fingers with hers, coating his own hand with the oil still there.
In a swift, graceful sweep, he spun her into his arms, reversing their positions, so she stood nestled against his chest. Dana muffled a gasp behind her hand as his snuck up her snug skirt. The woman bit her lip when he began to stroke her between her thighs, as if that clench of teeth and lips were the only thing keeping her quiet.
Dana imagined the man making sweet circles over the woman’s clit, the oil warming with kinetic heat. The woman would be wet, the earthy scent of her arousal mixing with the nuttiness of the oil and the sweet smell of lavender. The man’s nostrils flared as if he couldn’t get enough of that intoxicating scent. He wrapped his arm around her tight as her body tensed against his. She panted behind bitten lips while the moment built stronger, headier, in the suddenly small store.
Then, with a sharp gasp, the woman came, gripping the man’s knee and the tasting table, trying to steady herself as the tiny wooden table wobbled beneath her weight. The ceramic ramekins clinked softly, adding a quiet rhythm, while they all caught their breath.
For a moment, Dana wondered what someone else would think, if they knew this had happened. That she’d just stood there and watched a couple… have sex — was that even what they’d done? — in her store. What would her coworkers say? Her manager?
Her boyfriend.
With a wicked grin, the man squeezed the woman before letting her go. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a hankie, wiping his hands on it before handing it to the woman.
As she cleaned up too, he picked up one of the bottles of lavender olive oil from the shelf and put it into the already full basket. The woman tucked his hankie back into his pocket, smirkingly squeezing his ass, before adding a bottle of ginger oil to their collection as well.
With a slightly panicked thrill, Dana saw them head toward the counter. Quickly, she slipped in through the employee door into the back office, her heart pounding as she wondered how she could possibly look the couple in the face — much less ring up their order — after all that.
But she was the only associate on duty, so when she heard their basket, full and heavy, plunk on the glass countertop, she sighed and resignedly pushed through the door. She plastered a friendly, Catered Cook smile on her face. “Did you find everything all right?”
The couple smiled and gave her a knowing look. With a little laugh, the woman purred, “Absolutely.”
Feeling a fierce blush flush her cheeks hot, Dana began to scan their items, swiftly transferring their purchases from the basket to a sturdy, embossed bag.
Trying to sound as casual as possible, she told them their total and took the shiny, silver credit card the woman handed over. Dana rung them up, only belatedly noticing that she’d not only just made and far surpassed her shift’s revenue goal, but that she’d stayed a full fifteen minutes past her shift’s end.
Handing them their things with a robotic thanks, Dana stood in front of the counter and watched the couple link arms and walk out of the store, eager to test out their new tools. She stood there long after they’d left the store, the door’s electronic bell tinkling tinnily. Long after they’d turned the corner past swiftly closing stores and out of sight, she just stood there blinking, replaying the last half hour.
Stiltedly, she started toward the front doors to lock them and pull down the gate. That done, absently, she walked back, passing by the bakeware, even though it was the roundabout way back to the cashier’s counter.
Pausing in front of the forks and spoons and scrapers and spatulas, she reached out haltingly, her hand hovering over the buckets for a hesitant moment. Taking a breath, she picked up the same rubber spatula the couple had first tested out.
She gave it a wave, feeling its weight differently, as if for the first time. Slightly off-balanced, it cut through the air easily with a light whoosh.
She thought of her boyfriend, the odd bookstore find. She thought about his long, lanky limbs and the way he bent low at the waist to reach for books as he stacked. Curling her fingers around the top of the wide head, she thought about his gusto and his abundant appetite.
She bent it back, feeling the taut tension along the tool’s long neck.
At the sound of the cleaning crew’s vacuums rev, she jumped and let go.
Breathing heavily, she felt the plastic handle reverberate in her grip, the shudder traveling through her hand, up her arm as it shot through to her spine.
She looked around — her head whipping one way and then the other — before she tucked the tool into her smock pocket and headed back to the cash register.
I’ll purchase it — and maybe another bottle of lavender olive oil — before I shut down the register for the night, she decided.
After all, she could always find a use for more kitchen toys and she didn’t use her associate’s discount near enough.
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