by Laura Brown
You texted a picture of your breast, a tiny voice answered. True and I wanted to do it again. I was never that type of person. But a new city and insomnia had ways of getting to a person.
In an area filled with mostly street parking, the bakery had a tiny lot in back for employees and customers. I parked against the brick building and shook the jitters from my hands as I exited the car. I took a deep breath of the sweet fall air, mixed with whatever glorious baking went on inside—definitely some challah and muffins—and pushed the doors open.
Right into chaos.
Overhead lights bounced off chrome and ceramic. At least six bakers rushed around preparing for the day. Voices overlapped with a loud radio blasting. Down one hearing aid, I couldn’t follow the sounds or discern a damn thing. I stood there, like an idiot, two seconds away from tucking tail and crawling all the way back to my parents’ house, when I heard my name.
Or rather, I heard the three-beat musical equation of my name, but it could really be any three-beat word in the history of languages. I looked left, then right, then left again until I locked eyes on a woman in her fifties with a short crop of gray hair and a big smile. Nell Ruben, owner of Nell’s Place. My new boss.
I waved and prayed she’d take me someplace quiet to chat and get me started. No such luck. She started talking right away, her musical soprano voice blending in with the music on the radio, making it impossible to pinpoint a word. I had two choices: smile, nod, and fake it or reveal my hearing loss.
Option one would surely get me fired, but option two held risks as well. Nell stopped talking, still smiling, waiting for me to respond.
Times up. Universe, try not to shit on me today, okay?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear a word you just said. I have a hearing loss and this room is very loud and one of my hearing aids broke before I got here so…” I stopped before I rambled myself right out of a job.
Nell’s eyes widened and I braced myself for the obvious. How do you think you can survive in a noisy environment like this? Instead of speaking, she glanced around and pulled us over to a corner, a thankfully quiet corner.
“Is this better?”
Noise still competed with words, but I angled my working aid toward her face, eyes locked on her lips, and was able to make her out.
“Yes, thank you.” I breathed the words out in relief, akin to a dog accepting a treat.
“Good.” Nell jumped right into her spiel, explaining how things worked with large, animated gestures, what she expected of her bakers, including me. She introduced everyone by pointing from our corner, but the names weren’t already in my data bank, and not clear enough for me to latch onto. As soon as I caught one, she’d already said the next three. I smiled and nodded, knowing I’d have to play catch up or beg for a nametag policy.
Nell handed me a pink apron—the only kind she used, her uniform of sorts—and led me to a station already set up with cupcake recipes. Not much of a surprise since I made those for my interview. Also explained my later starting time. My food wouldn’t need to be ready quite as early as the morning breads and pastries.
I got to work, settling into my own world, adjusting to the noise and chaos of my new environment. My station faced a wall, not ideal for someone with a hearing loss. New employee, low on the totem pole. I might not be able to communicate, but I wasn’t here to chat. I was here to bake. Maybe in the future things could be rearranged. For now, I’d make do with whatever Nell handed me.
The smells were better here than any other place I’d worked. Flour, yeast, and sweets all melded together. I didn’t need fancy cupcake-scented candles, just a satisfied oven. Food bustled from the kitchen out to the front to be sold as my coworkers hurried around me. With any luck, no one would try to get my attention and label the new girl as having an attitude problem.
I paused as I waited for another batch to bake, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, taking a moment to tune into the world around me, in case I missed something.
Turned out, I had. Or, at least, I had an audience. A pretty brunette with the most kick-ass angled, asymmetrical bob I’d seen in my life perched nearby, leaning her hip against a counter, one long strand pulled back behind her ear. Made me feel drab with my ponytail.
“I’m Hannah,” she said. Or, rather, she said the second time after I made an idiot of myself by using my top favorite word: what?
“Avery.” I accepted her outstretched hand and firm shake.
“I’m Nell’s daughter, and no, this is not an inquisition. I stole one of your cupcakes after you interviewed and all but begged Mom to hire you. Then my brother tried one and your employment was in the bag.”
I stifled a laugh. “Momma’s boy?”
Hannah held out a hand and rocked it back and forth. “Not in the usual sense. More that they’re both running on about twenty years of Jewish guilt and neither one knows how to break the cycle. My brother demanded more and now here you are.”
This time, I let the laugh out. “Ah, I know this guilt well. I’m never going to live down moving out here and still being single.”
Hannah checked over her shoulder, then leaned in. I prayed she didn’t drop her voice too low. “…you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, of course I do.” And prayed I hadn’t agreed to hand over my first born.
The rest of the day flew by. Before I left, Nell informed me that my cupcakes were already a hit and she was glad she hired me. Good, step one in my plan. I headed home and collapsed face-first on my couch. As always, when I closed my eyes, my mind raced, thinking about everything and anything: from how much coffee I’d consumed to stay awake on the job, to where Hannah got her haircut, to how much longer we truly had until the world exploded. Nothing ever worked to calm the thoughts and after weaning myself off sleeping meds, I refused to get addicted again.
Insomnia was better.
I pulled out my phone and flipped to the dick GIF. How had one wrong text become the highlight of my day? I didn’t know and didn’t care, but I wanted to do something to thank him. Or maybe my libido had taken over and wanted to let him know I dreamt of him, since I scrolled past the dick, to the other image he sent.
I switched to my photo app and added a top hat and tie. Then I texted the picture back to its owner with the caption, never go out naked.
Sincerely pleased with myself, I closed my eyes, hugging my phone. My brain finally quieted down. Instead of the million and one trains of thoughts running, this weird text exchange was the only thing on my mind.
CHAPTER TWO
Avery
“We Are Family” blared from my phone, shaking me awake. I cursed my mother for making that her ringtone, and more so myself for not altering it to something more subdued, like the Jaws theme song. Or a lullaby I could sleep through.
I rubbed my ear, my finger hitting the silicone mold and tubing of my aid, shifting it until a high-pitched squeak occurred. Officially, the squeak was known as a feedback loop created by an ill-fitting mold. I referred to it as my battery checker. If the aid squeaked, that meant it worked and I could answer the phone.
“Hello?” Hearing aid check aside, I hadn’t managed to work myself awake enough to keep the sleep out of my voice.
“Avery, honey, did I wake you?”
I pulled the phone back to check the time, ten p.m. “Why are you calling so late?”
“You don’t sleep much, darling, I figured I had a decent chance of not bothering you.”
Couldn’t argue with that. I stretched, resting one leg on the pile of books at the other end of the couch. “What’s up?”
“How did your first day go?”
I thought of the bakery, of the noise and the atmosphere and the few people I interacted with. “Not bad. Nice place and nice people. Though the kitchen is much louder and chaotic than I’m used to.”
“You sure about this? If the working environment isn’t a good match, maybe you should come home.” Mom’s voice filled with worry, the kind only
a Jewish mother could pull off. It warmed me, like a comfortable blanket being draped over my shoulders.
“Mom, I won’t tuck tail and run home right away. I’m unpacking, they love my cupcakes, and I want to learn what I can. I’m not ready to head home anytime soon.” I wouldn’t let myself. Mom might have known Erik and I had planned on opening a bakery together one day, but she didn’t know this last step of the plan: gaining one final recipe to make our menu complete. Now I had to finish this, for him. “But I do need your help. My right hearing aid broke.”
Mom gasped. “Broke?”
I scratched the inside of my empty right ear. Damn ears were always itchy. “Yeah, the backing came off the shell. Can you call my audiologist, explain I’m out of state, and see what they suggest?”
I could call them myself, but I avoided phone calls whenever possible. Talk to my mom or someone whose voice I knew well? Sure. Other types of phone calls were hit or miss on if I could understand the speaker or not. Maybe that made me weak, having my mother call for me. It’s a system we established when I was young. If it worked, don’t fix it, right?
“Of course. I’ll send you a text tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I yawned.
“You sound tired. Get some sleep before you have to go into work.”
I nearly laughed. Yawning or not, there was no way in hell I’d manage sleep, not for a while, at least. Still, I hung up. When my phone returned to the home screen, I found a text message waiting for me. Dick Guy. My libido perked up and wiped away any tiredness with her greed, demanding I check the text. Now.
Dick Guy: You put a top hat on my shriveled dick?
My fingers tingled as though his words caressed me through the phone. I clutched a pillow to my chest, those tingles traveling, spurring naughty thoughts.
Me: Well, you haven’t given me another image to go by.
I tapped my phone, half fearful, half excited about whether or not he’d really do it. In the span of a day, I’d gone from polite texter to soliciting an obscene picture from a stranger.
Dick Guy: Are you propositioning me?
Yes. I didn’t know where this side of me came from, but I liked it. A lot.
Me: Hey, I just moved to a new state, my pickings are slim right now. And you did text me first.
Dick Guy: No significant other, right? I don’t wanna be that guy.
Not since Erik collapsed and never moved again.
Me: Would I be interacting with you if I had a significant other?
Dick Guy: You never know.
Me: What about you? Should you be talking to someone you exposed yourself to if you have a girlfriend or boyfriend?
Dick Guy: None of either sort.
The fact that his response gave me a little thrill proved how delirious I’d become. They were just words. This guy could be absolutely anyone. He could be on the run from the law or in bed next to his wife and lying. But I couldn’t deny there was something about having an anonymous friend as I started this new chapter of my life.
Me: Good. Glad we settled that.
Dick Guy: You’re not really expecting another picture, are you? I’m pretty sure that moves from obscene to sexting.
Me: Or just friendly, yet inappropriate, banter.
I clutched the pillow tighter, pressing it to my chest in a wayward attempt to sooth my aching nipples. I had no clue why I baited him, or why I wanted another picture so badly, but I did.
You’re lonely. I hadn’t even been here a week, not long enough to feel lonely. And how many friends do you actually miss from back home? These weren’t the type of conversations to have with friends. That makes this even better.
Dick Guy: You’d have to warm me up to it.
Oh boy. I reached for the glass on the side table and gulped down some water.
Me: How?
Dick Guy: Ever text dirty?
I nearly choked. In a game of Never Have I Ever I’d be stone-cold sober with this question. But he didn’t know that. My virtual persona could be anyone and do anything. She’d relish some dirty flirting. My fingers itched to bring her out, to turn this yearning crawling up my spine into a full-blown heat wave. Only I hadn’t a clue how to begin.
Me: You’ve seen my dirtiest texts.
Something I hoped changed soon. I moved the pillow from my chest to in between my legs.
He sent me back a large grin and warmth spread through me. I nearly asked to see what that grin really looked like but felt that would be odd after asking him to drop his pants.
This was beyond ridiculous. The rational chickenshit side of me took control.
Me: You ever get even with your buddy who you were trying to send that pic to?
Dick Guy: Not yet. Since texting backfired, I’m waiting until I see him.
Me: I’m a backfire?
Dick Guy: Didn’t say I was complaining.
Avery, stop smiling at your cell phone.
Dick Guy: Not exactly dirty texts.
I blew out a breath and debated how I wanted to respond.
Me: Maybe I need warming up before I warm you up?
And that sounded a lot dirtier than I intended.
Dick Guy: Oh really? What are you wearing?
My cheeks flushed as I looked down at my flour-spattered khakis and top with smudges of chocolate and food coloring. Damn, better put the pillow in the laundry hamper.
Me: If I’m honest, I’ll destroy the mood beyond repair.
Dick Guy: Granny panties and an old pair of stain-covered sweats, not bad.
I laughed.
Me: Hey, never underestimate the power of granny panties! No sweats, but stained clothes, yes. No granny panties.
Dick Guy: Commando?
I had to unbutton my pants. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I grabbed nearly twenty hours ago.
Me: Pink. Lace. Low rise.
Dick Guy: And you said you didn’t know how to text dirty.
My fingers played at the edge of the lace, running over my heated skin.
Me: Your turn.
Dick Guy: I thought you were trying to get what was IN the underwear.
Yes, please with a cherry on top.
Me: Hey, I sent you a boob pic. That makes us even.
Dick Guy: Only if you share what bra you’re wearing.
A thrill raced through me at his bossy behavior. Perhaps more so because of the bossiness. I pulled at my shirt collar and, what do you know, I managed to coordinate today.
Me: Matching.
Dick Guy: Damn.
Me: Hey, your turn now!
Dick Guy: I could’ve sent you the pic you request but…commando.
I tugged at my shirt, fingers brushing my cleavage. Was it warm in here? It was definitely warm in here. I had the sudden urge to strip.
Me: Do you usually go commando?
Dick Guy: Let me put it this way. I haven’t bought a pair of underwear since my mother stopped buying them for me.
Me: That tells me nothing. Some mothers buy their son’s underwear until one of them dies.
Dick Guy: I cut her off when I was 15.
Me: So your underwear is old, tattered, with stains and tears?
Dick Guy: The drawer is empty.
My skin turned itchy, yearning for something it couldn’t have.
Dick Guy: Do you ever sleep, dirty girl?
Me: Dirty girl?
Dick Guy: Teasing.
Tease me more.
Me: Honestly? Not much.
Dick Guy: Well, as much as I’d love to keep you entertained, I need some sleep. I enjoyed chatting with you.
Me: Hey, I never got that picture!
He sent me another smiling emoji.
Dick Guy: Then maybe we’ll have to chat more tomorrow.
Me: It IS tomorrow.
Dick Guy: Later. Try and get some sleep.
Me: You too.
I squeezed my thighs around the pillow, hoping to relieve the throbbing between my legs. No luck and yet it felt good
. I felt good; this odd exchange, the highlight of my day.
Fewer boxes needed to hug the wall, but I no longer had any energy or desire to tackle them. I stripped off my clothes on the way to my bedroom. Once there, I climbed into bed, wearing only my panties, the cool sheet welcome against my sensitized skin. My legs shifted and I rubbed my breasts against the mattress. The thought of touching myself—a little self-serve—rolled to mind. I hesitated. In the past, it never did much for me. Much better to attempt sleep riled up than in disappointment. I closed my eyes, evened my breathing, and tried to let my mind wander. It stayed focused on Dick Guy and the ache between my legs. For a half hour, I willed sleep to come, only to have my body betray me, yet again.
Screw it. I let my hands run over my still-sensitized skin, dipping into my panties. My wet folds begged for release, but nothing I touched gave me any pleasure. A small thrill, sure, but not enough to ease the desire.
I threw the covers off and stared at the ceiling—my tired body no match for my wide-awake mind. My fingers itched to collect the sleeping meds I was put on after Erik died and I stopped sleeping altogether, but that was the reason I had weaned off. I had to learn how to fall asleep without medication.
Tonight wasn’t that night. Waving the white flag of defeat, I pulled on some clothes and headed out to the living room. If touching myself didn’t help me get sleep, perhaps a few boxes would.
CHAPTER THREE
Jake
The backdoor to Mom’s bakery had squeaked since 2008, and no amount of WD-40 managed to do the trick. After my third attempt failed, I considered the squeak character and an added security system.
Not that those on the inside heard the squeak over the music. The door opened, some bass-filled soft rock tumbling out. The noise always hit first, completed by voices and the whir of machinery, before the familiar warmth and smells engulfed me. Nothing beat the smell of fresh baked just about anything.
I limped in, had been limping for longer than the damn door squeaked. Much longer. Sure, I looked able-bodied enough, until I lifted my pant leg.
Today, I needed not to limp. I had a mission, one more than the two-night-a-week shift I worked manning the sales counter here. I didn’t need the job, but the bakery had always been a second home, and I’d happily help my mother out in any way I could.
