She paces slowly in front of the stove top range. Slap, slap, the heels of her men’s-size-12 woolly slippers hit the composite-plastic-looks-like hardwood floors with each sloppy, frustrating step.
Emanating from atop the range, a small round tin lined with a buttery graham cracker crust and filled with a perfect concoction of fat and sugar wafts its golden goodness into the air, seducing all of her senses as she nearly faints in orgasmic delight.
No, she resists. The cake, amazingly enough, is not for her. Thus, she lets it cool on a rack on the far edge of the counter top.
The clicking of the cat’s claws crawl cautiously toward her as she washes up the caked on crustiness that baking exhumes. Purring and rubbing at her ankles, she brushes the cat out of the kitchen.
Returned to her washing, she catches the cake out of the corner of her eye. She leans to reach for the thing, and it disappears over the side of the counter. Screeching aloud, she runs to the end of the kitchen. Covered from head to tail, the cat— happily crouched—licks up the treat.
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