Sweet Tooth
"She owns the bakery where he stops every morning. Thick, warm, dusted with flour, and recently widowed. When the shop is empty one evening, she offers him something not on the menu."
Rosa's Bakery opened at 6 AM.
I was there at 6:05 every morning, before my shift at the office across the street. Coffee, croissant, and three minutes of conversation with the woman behind the counter.
Rosa was fifty-six. Italian, widowed two years ago, running the bakery her husband had started. She had gray-streaked hair always dusted with flour, hands that never stopped moving, and a body that didn't fit behind the small counter.
She was thick. Wide hips that bumped against the display case. Heavy breasts beneath flour-dusted aprons. A round face and a rounder figure that made every pastry she sold seem like an extension of herself.
"Good morning, Tyler." She smiled the same smile every day. Warm. Genuine. The kind that made you forget it was 6 AM. "The usual?"
"Please."
She handed me my coffee, our fingers brushing. "Long day ahead?"
"Always."
"Then you need an extra pastry." She added a chocolate croissant to my bag. "On the house."
"Rosa, you don't have to—"
"I want to." Her smile softened. "You're my first customer every day. You deserve something sweet."
I started staying longer.
The shop was quiet before 7—just me, Rosa, and the smell of fresh bread. We talked about nothing and everything. Her husband, dead from a heart attack at fifty-eight. My job, which I hated. Her bakery, which she loved. Life, and what we did with it.
"You should quit," she said one morning. "Find something that makes you happy."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. But I see the way you look at that building every morning. Like it's a prison."
"It pays the bills."
"So does a lot of things." She refilled my coffee. "But you only live once, Tyler. Don't spend it somewhere that drains you."
I looked at her. At her warm eyes, her flour-dusted hands, her generous figure.
"What makes you happy?" I asked.
"This." She gestured at the bakery. "Feeding people. Seeing them smile." She paused. "And talking to you."
"Me?"
"You make me feel less alone." She looked away. "Since Marco died, the mornings have been... quiet. You fill the silence."
"I like filling it."
"I know." She met my eyes again. "That's why I give you extra pastries."
One evening, I came back.
The shop was closing. Rosa was wiping down counters, apron off, looking tired and beautiful.
"Tyler?" She looked up. "What are you doing here?"
"I quit my job."
"You did?"
"An hour ago. Just walked out." I laughed—something between relief and terror. "I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Come in." She unlocked the door. "Sit down. I'll make you something."
I sat at one of the tiny café tables. She brought me coffee and leftover sfogliatelle.
"You're crazy," she said, sitting across from me. "In the best way."
"I'm terrified."
"Good. Fear means you're alive." She reached across the table. Took my hand. "What made you finally do it?"
"You."
"Me?"
"You told me to find something that makes me happy." I squeezed her hand. "I've been thinking about that for weeks. And I realized—the only time I'm happy is here. At 6 AM. Talking to you."
"Tyler..."
"I know it's crazy. I know you're—you're older, and widowed, and I'm just a customer. But—"
She kissed me.
She tasted like sugar and coffee and something I couldn't name.
Her hands cupped my face. Mine found her hips—those wide, generous hips—and pulled her closer. She made a sound against my mouth, something between a laugh and a sob.
"We shouldn't," she breathed.
"I don't care."
"I'm old enough to be your mother."
"I don't care."
"People will talk."
"Let them."
I stood. Lifted her onto the counter. She gasped, her legs wrapping around me.
"The shop—" she started.
"Is closed." I kissed her neck. "We're alone."
"Tyler..."
"Tell me to stop."
She didn't.
I took her in the bakery she'd built with her husband.
On the counter. Against the wall. On the flour-dusted floor.
She was soft everywhere—thick thighs, heavy breasts, a body made for comfort. And she used it like she'd been waiting for permission.
"Yes—" She moaned as I entered her. "Oh god, yes—"
I fucked her slow at first. Savoring. She'd been a widow for two years. She deserved to feel wanted.
"More—" She pulled me deeper. "Please, more—"
I gave her more. Harder. Faster. The display case rattled. Pastries fell. Neither of us cared.
She came twice before I finished inside her.
We lay on the floor after. Flour everywhere. Pastries ruined.
"I'm going to have to bake fresh in the morning," she said.
"I'll help."
"You know how to bake?"
"I can learn."
She laughed. Kissed me.
"Stay," she said. "Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you want."
"What about what people think?"
"I spent two years caring what people think. Mourning the way I was supposed to. Being sad the way I was supposed to." She cupped my face. "I'm done being supposed to."
I moved into the apartment above the bakery.
I learned to bake. Not well, but enough. I man the counter in the mornings while Rosa does the real work in the back.
Customers ask if I'm her son. We let them think whatever they want.
At night, after the shop closes, we make our own kind of sweetness.
She saved me from a life I hated.
I gave her a reason to smile again.
Best pastry I ever tasted.