Diary of a Baker
by Wildebeest
Chapter 1: A Late-Night Order
It was another slow day for me at the Sugar Shack.
I was a baker who ran a tiny little shop smack dab in the middle of Ponyville. It wasn’t very enthralling work, as you can imagine, and today was no exception. Every couple of hours or so, a customer would walk in, order a muffin or a scone, and maybe stick around a minute or two to chat if I was lucky. The rest of the day I was just left to sit around the bakery, twiddling my hooves and waiting for something interesting to happen.
Not that my better business days were much more exciting. At best, I could usually hope to make… maybe 25 sales over the course of a day. You’d think that it would be a little easier to gain notoriety in some tiny, middle-of-nowhere town like Ponyville. But me? Eh. Some ponies knew me, some ponies didn’t. In general, my shop’s success was just enough to keep me from going out of business. My income? Just enough to sustain a steady diet of breakfast cereal and microwaveable mac ‘n cheese, which was just enough to keep me from dying from malnutrition.
Just enough. Those were the words that had defined my entire life up to this point. For years, I’d been barely scraping by and meeting the bare minimum. Depressing, I know, but it’s not like I was destined for greatness with three frosted cakes on my flank.
7:00 rolled around, and I decided that I was too tired to stay at my post any longer. My shop is supposed to be open until 9, but nobody really noticed when I closed shop early. I shrugged off my hat and apron as I slowly shambled to the front door, and just as I placed my hoof on the “OPEN/CLOSED” sign and started to flip it over…
“Wait!” cried a light, willowy soprano voice just outside my door. I cracked open the door to see who it was, and right in front of my eyes stood a blue- coated mare, about my age by my estimation. Her mane was a big, poofy, cotton candy colored pompadour, one that seemed to bounce up and down with every step she took. Her bountiful mane was complimented by a similarly bountiful figure; she looked healthy and well fed, with just a little bit of a belly poking out in between her front legs.
“Is there a problem, miss?” I asked timidly.
“Why’re you closing now? It’s only seven.”
I momentarily glanced at the clock sitting right above my oven. “Oh, uh, so it is!” I said sheepishly, feigning ignorance. “My mistake. Come in.”
I held the door open for her and she quickly trotted in, accidentally letting her tail graze my neck as she passed me. I had to stifle a chuckle, as I’m quite ticklish there and even the most innocuous touch is enough to send me into a giggling frenzy.
I briskly galloped behind the counter and got ready to take down her order. “So… what can I get for you today, ma’am?”
“Just a cinnamon scone, please. Nothing too fancy, just looking for something to satisfy my nightly sugar cravings. Why are your clothes off?”
My sleep- addled eyes quickly shot open with surprise, and a blush started to creep across my cheeks. The way she just nonchalantly tacked that on at the end of her sentence threw me off guard. “I… I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Your uniform. It’s on the floor.”
She was right, of course. I had carelessly forgotten to put my uniform back on before answering the door. By the time I realized that I was standing in front of her in nothing but a bowtie, my blush had grown to engulf my entire face. “Oh, yeah… it-it is,” I stuttered, overcome with embarrassment. “I, um, took it off… it was too hot.”
“It’s 40 degrees out,” she responded, a deadpan expression frozen on her face.
“We-well,” I stammered, “you see, temperature is relative t-to your… location… and what’s hot for you may not be… may not be hot for… cinnamon scone, you said?”
“Cinnamon scone.”
“Coming right up.”
I immediately got to work kneading, powdering and baking the pastry, all while avoiding eye contact with the lady at all costs. As soon as I was done, I hastily wrapped it in plastic and shoved it across the counter into her hooves. “H-have a nice night,” I uttered.
The lady chuckled, took a seat at one of the tables and began to unwrap her scone. “Who said I was leaving?” she asked slyly.
"Well-I... nopony, but... isn't it past your bedtime?" I blurted out.
Her uproarious laughter echoed throughout the entire bakery.
"You're funny, mister," she said as soon as she managed to regain her composure. "But no, I think I'll make myself comfortable here for a little while, thank you very much."
And she did. For what seemed like an eternity, she sat there munching away at her scone while I was practically cowering behind the counter. She thankfully didn't try to make conversation with me, but she did occasionally pause to look up and giggle at my timidity.
As soon as she stuffed the last morsel into her mouth and tossed the wrapping into the wastebasket, she slowly began to sidle up to the counter. I was trembling.
"Delicious," she said, smiling sweetly at me as she licked cinnamon off her lips. "You've got a real knack for this, you know that?"
"T-thanks," I stammered. "I-I app-I appreciate it, ma'am."
The mare chuckled. "I'm sure you do. But I think it's time for me to go; it is past my bedtime, after all."
After a bout of awkwardly forced laughter, I managed to squeeze the words, "Good night, miss," out of my nervous gullet.
"Good night," she sang. As she turned around towards the door, her tail lightly grazed the nape of my neck.
Now that one HAD to have been on purpose...