Stratford Sweetness

"Excuse me, is there any chance—"

David stopped. The woman behind the bakery counter was thick, dark, and devastating. Flour dusted her brown skin, and her smile could power Westfield.

"Phone dead? Yuh have that look." She pulled out a charger. "Sit. Have a patty while yuh wait."

The Jamaican patty was incredible. So was watching Tamika work. That thick body moved between ovens and counters with practiced grace, her curves impossible to ignore.

"Yuh staring," she observed.

"Your pastries are amazing."

"That's not mi pastries yuh looking at." She laughed. "Is okay. Mi used to it."

"Sorry, I—"

"Don't be sorry. Just buy more patties."

He bought everything she recommended. Stayed until closing. Helped her clean up.

"Yuh don't have somewhere to be?" she asked.

"Nowhere I'd rather be."

She looked at him, really looked. "The flat's upstairs. Yuh want some real Jamaican food? Proper dinner?"

"I'd love that."

Dinner was curry chicken that sang. Rum punch that hummed. And Tamika, who was melody incarnate.

"Why yuh really stay?" she asked.

"Because you're the most interesting person I've met in years."

"Interesting." She smiled. "Most men say beautiful."

"That too. But interesting matters more."

Her eyes softened. "Come here."

Her bedroom smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. That thick body was the sweetest pastry he'd ever tasted.

"Yes! David! Right there!"

She moved like she baked—with passion, precision, and absolute mastery of her craft.

"More! Give mi more!"

He gave until neither could move.

Morning came with fresh pastries and fresh kisses.

"Come back tomorrow," she said.

"And the day after?"

"Every day." She pressed a warm patty into his hands. "Mi best customer. Mi only one that matters."

Now David works from the bakery café. Unofficial taste-tester. Official whatever-Tamika-needs.

Stratford's sweetest secret.

His sweetest reality.