What Lies in a Moment

by PaulAsaran

PaulAsaran: Icing

Icing
By PaulAsaran

Sugar. A scent she was intimately familiar with. It rolled through her nostrils in a fresh wave with every spoonful of pink. She lifted it out of the bowl, examining the swirling mass that could tantalize so many. Even now, the urge to take just the tiniest lick propelled her tongue forward. As always, she kept her lips sealed, blocking the saliva-covered assault before it could begin. Her dedication could only be so strong; she quickly tucked the dollop into the plastic tube. No sooner did she do so than her spoon entered the bowl, and the the battle for self-control began anew.

Distractions worked best in this fight. The steady tick-tick-tick of the old timer, its rounded top dented from one too many strikes from an energetic foal. The ovens, most of them scratched and faded from years of constant use. Save for the third one, which reflected the bright overhead lights like a beacon. It seemed almost rude to its elders, flaunting itself like that with its newer heating system and its more modern enchantments. The other ovens almost seemed to be sulking, seniors recoiling from the bratty new kid.

Another scoop.

Her ears perked to a bell’s chime. It rang out over the muffled noises coming from beyond the oaken, swinging doors. A constant humming, patrons going about their daily routines, enjoying a bite of cake or a milkshake during their lunch breaks. A single voice rose over the din, gentle and motherly. Did you enjoy your meal? Yes, they’re doing wonderfully, thank you for asking. That’ll be six bits.

Scoop.

Another happy customer. She could just see the smiles. She loved smiles. Being the expert that she was, she knew there were thousands of variations. Turning her head just a little to the side, she practiced a few in the mirror finish of the tall, imposing refrigerator that dominated its corner of the kitchen. Smug number D, with one corner turned up just so to emphasize confidence. Uncertain number F, chin tucked to chest and teeth grazing the bottom lip. Guilty number S, with eyes a little wider than normal and teeth slightly showing between shaky lips.

Scoop.

Grin P, her favorite and most frequent. Corners spread so wide she could feel the skin stretching, pearly teeth glinting in the light, eyes sparkling with mirth. It was a subtly different sparkle from Playful P. She practiced switching between the two, working to get the shine in her eyes just right. After all, smiles were no joke.

Scoop.

A new sound dared to interrupt her important study of facial interaction, yet it claimed to have good reason. Light and dancing, it played with her ears like the tease it was, begging her to move away from the counter, the bowl and the sugary sweet scents. Oh, how she longed to answer that spirited call! Her rebellious eyes danced their way to a nearby door. A tiny orange head of hair, topped by a little blue bow, pushed through the crack. Blue eyes caught the tiniest glimpse of the kitchen’s sole occupant before a skinny, batter-yellow leg snatched their owner away. The door closed, muffling the giggles.

Scoop.

Enough scooping. The battle was almost won. Setting her spoon aside, she twisted up one end of the tube, blocking her eager tongue’s path to sugary goodness. With a twist of her hooves, she’d tied off the end. Shouldn’t that be harder than it seemed? There was a time, back when she’d first stepped into this magical kingdom of sugar and dough and enchanted ovens, when she’d had to use her teeth too. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, listening to the light click-click of tooth against tooth, trying to remember how she’d ever used them for such a thing. Trying again might be fun.

Ding.

One of the older ovens desired her attention. She set her tube aside and reached over the counter to the circular rack above. Tools of every description hung from it, silent prisoners just waiting to be freed and know their purpose. As she pulled a stained grey oven mitt down, the other utensils turned away, as if to hide their jealousy at being ignored. She couldn’t blame them; being forgotten wasn’t much fun. But they would get over it and welcome their friend back into the fold soon enough. They always did.

Ding.

Mr. Oven was impatient. He had a gift for her, and she kept him waiting like a lovesick colt standing at the door of his desire’s house. She giggled and cooed at him; he was far too old for her and he knew it. He opened his door for her anyway, his heat demonstrating his eagerness and the glowing element below his blush. No flowers for this mare, oh no; this devilish Blueblood sought to tempt her with hot, soft, moist baked goods. A dozen of them, all settled in their respective seats and awaiting their uniforms.

Another battle was waged. This one proved more easily won, if only by virtue of her not wanting to suffer a throbbing tongue for a while. She grasped the baked soldiers’ tray and pulled them out, silently thanking the old oven for his gift but coyly asking for more time to think about it. After all, he had a lot of competition and all the other old guys were preparing to shower her with gifts. No, no, don’t worry about that young upstart, he has nothing on you.

The tray is set. The soldiers, soft mounds of fluffy, chocolatey deliciousness, await orders. Perfect specimens, each and every one of them. Ah, but they still lacked their attire, didn’t they? Her battle would begin anew; she took the tube filled with sugary goodness and took aim. The time had come for them to look as good as they smelled. After all, mares preferred their colts to be in uniform.

The sweet scent invaded her nostrils once more.

Comments

[Danger Beans]

Ahhhh. Okay. I see what you were going for.

[PaulAsaran]

7517528
Yeah, it's easier when you have an actual example to look at, right?

[FOXTrot2]

I don't underestand. She has trouble controlling herself around sweets?

[PaulAsaran]

9471116
Something tells me you've never baked sweets before.