Undercooked

"Sorry, we don’t have any chocolate cake at the moment."

He has a very punchable face, and I’m not a violent person.

Those two thoughts barge into my mind at the same time as the young man behind the counter tosses out his insincere apology. He’s not particularly good looking or even memorable, but for some reason I can’t look away. Must be those green eyes, they look like cheap beer bottles.

"So what would you call that?"

I point at the brown triangle right under his nose which looks like a slice of perfectly fine chocolate chiffon. Frankly, I’m not really dying for chocolate right now. There’s no craving that a triple shot espresso can’t deal with. I just don’t want "No" for an answer to my first request in the morning—it’s bad mojo for the rest of the day.

"Oh, I’m afraid this one is not our usual recipe."

"Meaning?"

"We ran out of an important ingredient this morning, so the taste is not exactly the same—"

"—I don’t care what your shit normally tastes like."

The barista doesn’t look as nervous as he should be, and that irritates me.

"Let me give you some advice about customer service." I raise my voice. "When a customer is asking for something sitting right there in your sorry store, shut up and get them the shit, okay?"

The lady behind me clears her throat loud enough for me to hear. I turn around and see a woman who probably turned no heads on her way here. Typical middle-class wannabe: pricey handbag up here, cheap shoes down there. A good fabric shaver for that worn out cardigan would be a much wiser investment for you, miss.

I stick my neck out and inspect the queue. Everybody has the same uninspiring fashion taste and exhausted expression as the lady behind me. Who would’ve thought that dainty storefront of this place could draw in such a shabby client base.

"If you insist," the barista pulls my attention back with a piece of paper. "Would you be so kind and sign this relief confirming that you’re happy to purchase this piece of cake despite the missing ingredient?"

"What the hell—"

"—Alternatively, you may ask the other customers here to witness the transaction."

I hear grumbles from behind. A few of them put their hands up as if to say they’d like to participate, let’s get this over with.

"This is ridiculous." I scribble my name at the bottom of the paper. "I would’ve called your manager out but you’re lucky I’m too busy for that today."

"That will be $9.25 in total." He says as he pushes my triple shot and well-earned chocolate chiffon forward.

"You have the audacity to charge me after all this inconvenience!?"

Despite the fire in my bulging eyes, the young man’s smile is so flawless it looks like it’s drawn on.

"My apologies." He retrieves the POS machine and erases the offensive figures on the screen. "It’s on the house."

I snatch my coffee and the paper bag off the counter and push my way out of the café. The other customers grunt and mutter, but nobody manages to string their words into a proper complaint. I rip the bag open immediately after I step out, and here we go—the idiot forgot to give me napkins.

I turn around and the swinging door almost hits me in the face, but that’s not what stops me from storming back inside.

The cardigan lady is glaring at me, so is everyone else inside the café. Those people who were queuing for their diabetes-inducing breakfast a minute ago have formed a wall of hostility, only two steps away from where I stand.

I stumble backwards and trip over my own buckled feet. Dozens of pedestrians walk around me and over me. No one seems to have noticed the strange scene inside the café, and no one has a moment to stop and ask if I’m okay.

I get back on my feet and pat the dirt off the back of my jacket. Don’t look. Says the voice in my head. I walk in stride with my head hanging low, then I begin to run.

I spilled the coffee when I fell but the cake survived. The frosting is as creamy as it looks, and a bit hard to swallow without the coffee to wash it down. My feet keep moving forward while my brain ruminates on the bizarre scene I just witnessed.

The taste of the cake didn’t register inside my mouth until I’m down to the last bite. It tastes just like your average chocolate, but after I clean off the residue on my teeth with the tip of my tongue, there’s a sour trace, like aged vinegar. Some talentless patissiers like mixing two flavours that don’t belong together when they run out of ideas and call it “layering”.

Such a waste of time, but I got what I wanted in the end. I got the cake. That’s what matters, and that’s how the rest of today is going to turn out.

I crumple up the paper bag and toss it to the side of the road.

* * *

"I appreciate you coming in, but this is completely unnecessary."

Nick chooses to have the conversation standing up, so he can lead me out of the door any second.

"We value our clients’ feedback and I’m here today to address any concerns that you may have in relation to our services." I put on the same smile I stole from the barista, and pray that Nick wouldn't hear my stomach gurgle—actually, it's more of a twitch. It feels like there's a dove bouncing between my organs and it's particularly fond of my spleen.

This is why you should never eat while walking, let alone running.

"I already told Paul everything. There’s nothing personal."

"You engaged our firm for a long time. As I understand, it had been pleasant—"

"—You did some contracts for us, yes." Nick moves one step closer to the front door. "But litigation is a different game. We had to move fast and we wanted someone who had dealt with those assholes before."

His hand finds its way to the door handle.

"Like I said, I already called Paul. There’s no hard feelings."

Sure, Paul's feelings were so fine that he had to take me off the promotion list.

"Did you tell Paul I did nothing wrong?" I pay no attention to the open door.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, if that's the reason why you took this case to another firm, would you be so kind and tell Paul it wasn't my fault?"

Nick finds that proposal hugely amusing.

"You don't have much social skills, do you?"

The receptionist behind us concurs with a faint scoff.

"Wait, does Paul even know you're here?" Nick takes his phone out of his suit pants and starts scrolling down his contacts.

Hmm, what do you think you're doing?

Next thing I know, I've slapped Nick's phone off his hand.

The twitch inside me goes quiet as the shiny new iPhone hits the ground, but only for a second.

"You are dead." Nick barks. He lifts a finger and the receptionist picks up her phone of command. "You're so dead!"

I get to the receptionist before she can finish her greetings. She wouldn't drop or let go of the receiver, so I fish a pair of scissors out of her pen holder and jab those in her neck.

Her last words are instructions for the security guards. She attempts to keep on talking even as the blood gushes out of her wound. That’s what you call a model employee.

Nick is no longer the cocky alpha male he was a minute ago. He pounds on the double glass door separating the private area and the reception as he squeals for help. I guess he forgot his pass and those trembling knees can’t carry him to the buzzer that can let him back into his safe glasshouse.

I close the distance between us, one step at a time. The chaotic stirring inside me has turned into drum beats. Nick claws at me, which does throw me off for a second as I was expecting a proper punch. I catch both his hands in the air and for the first time, I get to take a good look at his fingers. Typical upper class fingers: soft, smooth skin, no scars or discoloration, clean nails with a subtle manicure. Whoever those fingers point at shall be condemned for all eternity.

And maybe it's the lighting, those fingers look kind of… buttery.

I stick four of them in my mouth and chew hard. They are crunchy—quite a jawbreaker, I must add—and have a thick, cheesy savoury taste to them. Usually I'm a sucker for this type of flavour, but it just doesn't feel quite right today.

I was hoping for something a bit… sour. Right, like aged vinegar.

* * *

The way the pedestrians look at me is judgmental and unwarranted. Sure, I'm covered in blood, but they must have seen way worse in this city. Winter is near. The nights are getting longer and all the psychos have come out of their hibernation.

The road I came from takes me back to that café. I need another slice of those. Make no mistake—this time I will ask to speak to their manager as they have a lot to answer for, but before then, I need more of that rich, brown stuff.

"What's in that chocolate!?" The voice coming out of my throat isn't mine.

The barista peeks out from behind the espresso machine at the sound of my question.

"I did mention it wasn’t our usual recipe."

In the blink of an eye, he’s towering over me. There must have been some hidden stairs behind that counter because he's twice as tall as he seemed.

"You wanted to speak to the manager earlier. Well, that’s me also." The barista cracks my jaw open and inspects my teeth like a veterinarian. "We value our customers' feedback and I'm here to address any concerns you may have in relation to our services."

Then he lifts my eyelids and gazes deeply into my dilated pupils. His glass-looking eyes now seem like a pair of sea green crystals. Typical eyes of a patissier: the moment he picks you out of the crowd, he’s started plotting what he can do with you before shoving you into his oven. Maybe first crush you with a rolling pin like he does wholesale Oreos, then mix you with one cup of milk, ¼ cup of butter, three teaspoons of cocoa powder and 20 ml of olive oil. The you-flavoured paste can easily go on top of any eggless cake base sitting inside his 9 inch pan. Although, if you ask me, eggless cakes are overrated.

"You said you ran out of an ingredient." I slur my words out. "What’s that about?"

"Oh, that." He flips the sign on the door to "Closed" and shuts the curtains. "Don’t worry, we’ve got everything we need now."

The cardigan lady and the rest of the gang emerge from the shadows once the café falls into pitch darkness.

"Okay, everyone." The barista claps his hands twice. "I know we’re all awfully excited but I do have the obligation to remind you that the subject hasn’t been properly battered or set to rise due to the current dining conditions, which may affect the softness of the core but not by much—"

Grumbles burst out of the crowd.

"—But I know how long we have waited and it would be extremely rude of me to even suggest we wait a second longer."

With the same drawn-on grin on his face, he pulls a stack of paper out of his uniform blazer.

"Now, if each of you would be so kind and sign this relief—"