The night our relationship began was like any other August evening in the San Francisco Bay area. Foghorns droned. Seals arp-arped. A chill fog rolled over, under, and around the Golden Gate Bridge, spreading its misty fingers into the nooks and crannies studding the bay’s coastline. It stretched all the way up to the Williams – Sonoma on Chestnut Street, forcing the store manager to close the shop’s double door early. He really hadn’t needed to hurry, since the moment she walked in, the temperature in the room rose at least ten degrees from the warmth her cherubic, rosy-cheeked face exuded.
I was smitten. Leaning up against a wall of wire whisks, wooden spoons, and a rainbow of egg timers, I agonized over how I might attract her attention. As it turned out, there was no need for concern – she immediately met my gaze and bee-lined toward me. After a brief exchange with the hired help, we were introduced, had a few laughs, and headed out the door together, into the obscurity of the night.
I had never been taken home to a woman’s apartment before, or since, I might add. We got along splendidly – sharing the same passion during the days that followed – baking cakes, pies, and cookies together in her stunning apartment at the foot of the Bay Bridge. “I’ll be hosting a memorial service next week,” she told the doorman after he commented on the delectable scent wafting into the hallway when he delivered two dozen white roses from her most recent ex-lover. In the evenings, we would sit together making plans for the future over a steaming cup of Ghirardelli hot cocoa, the other San Francisco treat.
Imagine my surprise when her husband came home late one night and she used me to bludgeon him beyond recognition. When the police arrived thirty minutes later in response to a noise complaint, she had already tidied up, covered me in kindling, and set me ablaze.
Thank you Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge: Object
for todays inspiration.