Cupcakes [concepcion]

[://Charlotte]

Ugh, work.

Charlotte quietly lifts a hand to weary eyes, pressing fingertips beneath the rim of those rhinestone studded sunglasses to worry upon those hazel eyes of hers. Okay, so her job wasn’t quite that bad, in fact, she quite liked it; which is the only reason she’s still working there. Sure, what she did was enjoyable, but this hangover pulsing in the back of her head wasn’t.

It’d been another late night for Miss Ayers, and it was weighing heavy upon that pretty blonde head of hers. What she needed was silence. Oh, and a glass of water. What she had to settle for was a set of headphones plunged deep into her ears, sans music (of course), and one energy drink or another, well, maybe two of those.

And of course, on the date of the greatest hangover known to men, and operating off of three hours of sleep Charlotte was stuck up front - with the menial job of frosting, and filling cupcakes. Oh, cupcakes, don’t get her wrong, frosting cupcakes wasn’t so bad, it was a performance art of sorts - some people could be wow’d by anything these days. Well, who could be blamed, Charlotte was good at her job, between the more complex tiered cakes, to simply spreading cream cheese frosting atop a spiced pumpkin cupcake. And then there was the sample tray that needed to be constantly restocked. No, none of these things bothered her, it’s the simple fact that in addition to cupcakes, Charlotte was also handed the task of meet and greet.

”Hello!”
“Good morning!”
“Welcome to Callie’s Custom Cakes!”

And while Charlotte was as big a fan of alliteration as anyone else, it simply didn’t suit her this morning. What did suit her, though, would get her fired. And as she was quite content here, that simply wouldn’t do well by her.

Instead, Charlotte dares to lift those rhinestone studded glasses to press upon her brow, instead, and tugs those simplistic white headphones from her ears. Everything seems so loud - from the gurgling of the coffee pot in the back room, to the cars upon the street out front, and the sound of the entirety of the city awakening. Oh, today was going to be a long day. Still, she manages to set down her offset spatula and round the display case to flip over that rustic open sign, and thereafter flick on the gaudy sort of neon lights announcing the name of the store.

For a moment she simply stands there and stares outwards, adjusting to her surroundings, and willing the nausea from her stomach, one extravagantly ringged hand lifting to pluck through crimped and curled locks before falling back downwards to settle upon aproned hip. Her nose wrinkles with distaste, bunching those freckles of hers unpleasantly.

With any luck it wouldn’t be too busy.

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[concepción]

It's a sharp scream that pierces his mind and the face of his beloved mother keening uncontrollably. It's the sharp sound of steel slipping free of scabbards and the fleshy notes of heavy hands falling upon soft faces. It's the sound of asphyxiation; the gurgling note of one attempting to gulp air. It's the sound of death and the soon the sudden note of him gasping.

It's wakefulness that greets him and a room smelling of musk.

Tears prick his blue eyes as his nostrils fill with the scent of the room and of flesh both. His head, though, lolls as he shifts upon that soft bedding only to nudge his legs out from underneath the sheets he was tangled within. His barefeet touch upon the cool and bare floor of his bedroom before hands clasp between his knees. His elbows nestle upon the tops of his thighs then and there whilst he hunches forward.

He breathes deep and wills the ache from himself.

Yet, something stills him. It's the sound of another that fills his head. It's the steady rhythm of a breath that comes and goes; the soft words that were feminine. "Mm, a nightmare?" She questions of him. No. Yes. Yes, a nightmare. That seemed right and well within place.

He couldn't help but tip his face to peer over his shoulder to the bare woman laying within his bed. He comes to his feet reluctantly before tucking that chin of his toward his chest. The truth, was, was that none of that was any of her business. "You have to go."

It had been the last thing he had told her and certainly the last time he would see her. That one face that added another notch to his belt. It was a belt that knew no end, though, with a length that had continued since the dawn of his birth long ago and once upon a time within a world so very different than this one of modern time. He nearly felt lost amongst the abundance of sweet and supple flesh. Yet, was this the life he truly wanted? Ah, that did not matter.

He had a craving now that no woman could truly fill and that's why he had ventured off within the city upon his very own two feet. As for what he had been searching for? Something that would easily sate that sweet tooth of his. That's when he had come across none other than Callie's Custom Cakes. The truth, though, was that he wasn't looking for a cake per say but something somewhat smaller. At least for himself. At least for the man with the peppered stubble and look of age about him; seasoned and experienced.

He has an easy smile though, and eyes far too bright for his face; oh, and nearly too feminine. That made little mention of his white teeth and that easy gait of his, though, and the faded and frayed utility jacket he wore unbutton to bare the button-down of black beneath with an undone collar to bare his throat and the hair of his chest. Despite his old age, though, he definitely held a semblance of fashion and style about him. There was an undoubtable swagger that was entirely his.

So did he step within Callie's Custom Cakes.

The bell chimed at his heels as he entered but the nigh empty space was somewhat a shock albeit disarming as well. It was pleasant to say the very least and when he spotted her...well, he couldn't help but place on his most polite smiles; a confidant talker, truly. It wasn't long until he made himself known with a word that was subtly laced with that latin accent.

"Excuse me, I'd like to buy some sweets. Ah, what would you recommend?"

He had a craving for something though.

How specific, though?

[://Charlotte]

Fuck her. How long ago had she flipped that signed, and already that overhead bell was giving it’s jingle. A customer. Once more her bejeweled hands release that offset spatula to settle it within the bowl of chocolate butter cream icing she was now working on whittling down, and onto some raspberry pocked muffins. She preferred those cupcakes sans icing, though.

Instead the tiny girl finds herself rotating in place and lifting to the tips of her ratty work-sneakers (Still somewhat stylish, mind you, only the best for young Charlotte after all.) Those heart shaped lips of hers purse for a short moment and, oh, yeah, “Hello!” she greets pleasantly enough. Her voice sounds smoky, perhaps from the late night she’d had just a few hours prior, or maybe it could be attributed to the cigarette she’d had only minutes before. Either way, those dirtied hands smear upon the front of that apron bound tight about her slender figure, only to just her knuckles to her pout and lap the remainder free. A bit unorthodox, and frowned upon by the state health code inspectors, sure, but it got the job done better than anything else she knew.

“I’m Charlotte, how may I help you?” she sounded more like a waiter than a cake decorator, but, well, whatever kept her employed.

Charlotte listens intently to his decidedly vague demands. What did she like best though? Well, there were the cupcakes, and Miss Ayers seemed to be fond of the chocolate-mocha variety with a simplistic whipped cream icing, though that was aimed more toward coffee drinkers. Was he the type? Perhaps, though it wasn’t the broadest market to appeal to - though it was expanding seemingly every day. Still, the pumpkin were good, more for the icing than the actual pumpkin spice cake itself. Petite fours were always fun, albeit a slight girly. Miniature cakes decorated though they were fullscale cakes. All the while she was sizing him up.

Was he a chocolate or a vanilla? Or heaven forbid a fruit-man.

“Well,” Charlotte begins, peeling open the case so she may retrieve the domed sample plate, which hosted simplistic slivers of miniature muffins, well decorated with bubbling frostings, each expertly piped by Charlotte’s own hands, “A good place to start, since it’s so early,” she reasons, eyeing the clock situated over the entrance, “Would be the vanilla, with a lemon curd frosting, it’s got a bright sort of flavor, with a neat kick to it,” did she just say kick? Yes, she did. Perhaps she was just investing too much into this job.

Her free hand seeks out a napkin whilst the other gestures to this particular cake, only to lift it and settle it onto the napkin, “Try it,” she offer up, pulling the napkin across the countertop so he may try.

[concepción]

He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. Did he have preferences though? Yes, somewhat. Everyone had a preference for what they prefered to eat and he was no exception to that. The Spaniard had nothing specific in mind, though, at that very moment as she introduced herself as Charlotte.

He drew closer then and there within time to watch her open the case only to seek out the sample plate. It was well and good that they had such things but he felt nearly compelled to purchase something if he were to eat a bit of anything from there; after all, time was money and samples were money as well. He leans closer to the case and peers down upon the domed-plate she was removing.

He didn't say much mostly because he wasn't sure what to say. He couldn't say that she was wrong or right. He wasn't the pastry-chef and he knew little of baking. Although such things reminded him of his home from once upon a time ago, and his mother, too. Either way, he'd amuse her and eat from the napkin. So, he watches her set the bit of cake and soon offer such to him.

Try it.

It's what she said to him and what he does with ease. He takes up the napkin from the counter top and cups such within his palm. His mouth lowers and he takes that bite before pinches flutter shut. Ah! It reminded him of home and of his mother. It reminded him of the hearth stones and hearth both. It reminded him of how warm his homestead could be when the winter chill chased the sun's heat. It felt like bliss and he swallows before smoothing his tongue along his lower lip.

"Charlotte," he breathes out before smiling and gesturing with the napkin. "I liked that one a lot," he confesses before looking down and onto the sample plate. He folds the napkin and dabs at his mouth politely. Yes, he had manners. "How long have you been working here?" He questions of her and lifts his brows at her, "and may I have another one of your suggestions?" He asks soon after.

There was nothing wrong with starting a friend conversation, right? He didn't think so. He liked to talk albeit he didn't get the chance to do such often enough.

[://Charlotte]

Charlotte’s brows furrow. Sometimes she could make it through the day with a hangover just fine, and then there were other days that she doubted such. She could feel the discomfort not only gurgling within the pit of her stomach, but rattling about within the thickness of her skull. Maybe it was that bright fluorescent lighting overhead, or maybe it was this gentleman speaking to her, but Charlotte could tell then and there, that if she didn’t take a seat soon and cup her hands to her ears, that she wouldn’t be getting paid for the full day.

A small hand lifts upwards, then, drawing those sunglasses from atop her pretty little head only to settle the nosepiece upon the bridge of her nose. Ah, much better, it bought her a little time at the very least of things. Perhaps she could even get through with helping out this customer and shoot a number of texts to her coworkers, and get someone to come in and cover. Of course, this was all very unlikely.

Still, Charlotte could keep hopeful, after all, emptying the contents of her stomach when drunk was an entirely different thing when drunk and settled within some back alley than it was when you’re suppose to be sober and working a job which actually meant something to you.

“Excuse me,” Charlotte utters, pinching a hidden eye shut, small hands settling upon the swell of her hips, turning to offer the line of her back to the gentleman. A short moment passed between the two, where Charlotte simply rubbed at her pretty face, fingertips soothing upon those freckles of hers before dropping back toward her hips. The small girl turns on her heel to face him once more, “Sorry,” she grumbles almost hesitantly, “I’m sort of hung over,” well, not sort of, she was really hung over. Despite all that the small girl manages to laugh at herself then and there.

“Uhm, I’m not sure how long I’ve been working here,” Charlotte comes to confess, groping back and upon the cup cake station for her energy drink so she may draw from it deeply. “Like a half year, which is why I’m still decorating fuc-- cupcakes,” she mumbles, sweeping a hand to gesture toward that table hosting her day’s work.

“Anyway,” Charlotte sighs out, tipping her pretty face to peer upon the platter of lightly decorated samples, “I like this one,” Charlotte informs him, lifting her sunglasses to be sure she selected the right one; pumpkin spice with simple cream cheese frosting. It was truly the frosting that did it for her more then anything other aspect of the cake. She finds herself lifting such with ease so she may offer it toward him more appropriately, “Pumpkin Spice, with cream cheese frosting,” she muses, pinching a pretty eye shut for a short moment.

All the while Charlotte toes that small waste basket out from beneath the countertop. Just in case.

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