Hideaway

A Story and Photo by Emily B

The knife hungrily tore through the flesh of the fruit, down the blade trickled the juice of a ruby apple. The smell of a pie was making pirouettes through the house, coating the little cottage with the thick scent of sugar. A rosy cheeked woman tugged two puffy oven mitts over her hands, and from within the warmth of the oven, emerged a honeyed pie.

The heat from the baking, blanketed the house, in a slightly suffocating way, that would make guests loosen their collars. Wrapped inside all the smells of over sweetness and cream, lay a distinct, pinching tartness.

She brandished her knife again and carved into the golden pie. She slid out an empty chair before seating herself across from it. She plucked a napkin from a stack, by the barcode tiger and the watered, plastic flowers and the candles that were aflame but didn’t melt.

“How was your day, honey?”

…

(Sinatra echoed through the home)

”that's good!

...

“Oh, that must be very difficult”

....

”Me? i'm just so happy to see you”.

(the clock’s hands stood still)

She beamed, at the empty seat, before cleaning the pie off of the plate, and into the trash. She mused and stared out the window, as she scrubbed the dinnerware, when her fingers glided over a creeping crack in the porcelain. Just for a moment it took her out of her dreamy trance ‘I just love you so much you know?” she sighed before clattering dishes away and settling back into the comfort of her mind before fixing her eyes back on the looming figure outside.