Bread Girl

I bought a man with bread money because I liked the look of his hands. He married me because he liked the taste of my dough.

I went to the charity ball to deliver an order - tarte tropézienne, eclairs, canele. Unlike previously, my contact was not in the kitchen.

I searched amongst the guests, out of place in my dough-crusted apron, my hair pulled back in a messy bun, flats on my feet. Jewel-adorned women and diamond chandeliers refracted light; I found her by the cloying stench of perfume.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I sighed. “Hello, Karen. The pastries are in the kitchen. If you don’t mind paying me now, I’ll be on my way.”

But then I saw him.

He stood on the stage, holding a number 6, unremarkable in all ways. Except his hands. They called to me, pulling me closer. I wanted to trace the lines on his palms, caress his knuckles, feel his fingers on my bare stomach, inching lower and lower until-.

“Like what you see?” his voice, melodic, slipped into my fantasy.

“Is this the Graecostadium?”

He laughed. “Yes? It’s a fundraiser for the hospital.” He gestured to the others near him, then at the sign above his head. ‘Win Dinner with a Firefighter.’

Karen shoved her way between us, towering over me. “Excuse me, bread girl. What are you still doing here?” 

“Bidding.” I folded my arms and glared.

She huffed and walked away.

Turns out, my paycheck was exactly enough to win the bid.

In the taxi after dinner, he put those hands on my hips, triggering a cascade of shivers up and down my body. “Am I worth the price?” he whispered, then kissed me gently.

I put my hand on the window to block Karen’s view and kissed him back.