Two Cakes (Patreon)

I open my heart and pour blood into the rich batter. I pull out my brain and wring it out, mixing the technicolor sludge in with a heavy hand.

There’s no rack; I hold the pan up while the cake bakes and my hands burn. It’s overcooked. I toss it out and open a new bag of sugar and an old, drained heart. But that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

Grated dreams, candied metaphors and chocolate-hope frosting are spread with care. It’s not perfect, it’ll never be perfect, but that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

I step through the double doors and begin to wander, searching for a place to display my new creation. I try a few, and they don’t work out. But that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

I find a little corner. This has to be it; I can’t carry this all day. I set up my little display. The cakes on each side of me are so much better than mine, though their bakers share my anxious expression. But that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

People come and go. Some taste it and compliment the frosting or the presentation, or give me a little heart sticker. Some grab a handful without even meeting my eye. One takes a slice and sticks it in his own haphazard pan while sneering at my greed.

Most don’t even notice that I’m here at all. But that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

The cake goes stale, and I toss it away. I don’t know what I’ll try next; a meringue, maybe. I head back into the kitchen, desperately trying to hold on to the knowledge that at least someone enjoyed it. It’s not enough, and hasn’t been for a long time. But that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

The door is locked. I bang on it, and someone comes up to the window holding a sign. Under New Management: Ice Cream Only! I look around; I’m not the only one on the chopping block. I leave; no point in hanging around a sinking ship. The other big bakeries nearby also don’t want what I can cook. But that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

I head to a little shop I know will be a bit less daunting. I have friends, at least. Some of them have their own cakes or cookies or tarts or candies.

They all look good, but they come and go so fast it’s impossible to savor one. In the back I whip up a little tray of snacks; I’m too drained for anything else. They’re barely better than nothing, but that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

I join the swarm of people desperate for approval. Nothing. Friends tell me it looks good and what bakeries might like it. They don’t try it, though. It’s not their fault; there’s only so much sugar you can stomach in a day. But that’s okay. It’s the hard work that matters.

A friend stumbles into me with his own tray precariously balanced and my snacks spill everywhere, all uneaten. Also not anyone’s fault; it’s so crowded. Everywhere is so crowded. He apologizes profusely, but I take it in stride; it helps that he makes incredible cupcakes. I tell him so, and he laughs modestly and says they’re nothing compared to mine.

Really, I say through gritted teeth (I’m not mad at him but I am mad), there’s always room for another cake. And besides, it’s the hard work that matters.