When We Touch

The squat octogenarian pushes my rockabilly roommate aside and joins me at the massive, weathered-wood table where I work.

“Oh,” she gasps. “Emberly Rose!”

Tabby’s right behind her. “You ordered the penis cake?”

“Oh, yes!” BP clutches her chest.

“Well, don’t have a heart attack,” my friend snarks.

Stepping back, I survey the raunchy masterpiece. “I think it needs a vein.” I pinch a bit of fondant and roll it into a long, skinny column, laying it along the shaft.

Once it’s in place, I add the last bit of vanilla cream at the tip.

Miss Betty’s voice is thick with lust. “It’s so good!”

My friend arches a perfect, black eyebrow. “How long has it been since you’ve seen one of these?”

“Get a life, Tabitha Green. I see what I want on the Internet,” Betty says before turning to me. “I can’t believe you did this without a mold.”

“The frosting helps.” I walk to the wall of cabinets and take down my vanilla extract and a small paintbrush. “I thought about putting a square cake around the bottom and molding jeans with the fly down… Painting it blue, like it’s rising out of his pants?”

The old lady’s eyes widen. “You can do that?”

Using the paintbrush, I lightly dab the dark-brown vanilla around the ridges, giving the cake more dimension. “It would take a few hours.”

“Forget it, then. I need it for Donna’s shower now.” She carefully steps around me. “It’s absolutely thrilling! Hopefully it’ll loosen her up some.”

Tabs and I exchange a glance. “I’m glad you like it.”

“How much do I owe you?”

Tabby starts to speak, but I cut her off. “Two hundred.” I don’t miss my best friend’s glare, but I’m not going to charge an old lady full-price, even if she is annoying as hell half the time.

I also know the old biddies gossip about how much I charge for my cakes. They might call me a genius, but they won’t pay genius prices for something they think they can do at home.

“Two hundred dollars?” Her lust turns to shock.

“I’m sure you took up a collection,” Tabby snaps.

She still hasn’t gotten over Betty Pepper ratting her out for skinny-dipping in the Holiday Inn pool last year with Mayor Rhodes’s out of town nephew. It was a pretty tame stunt for Tabs… until we found out the kid was only seventeen.

In my friend’s defense, the boy had a tattoo, rode a Harley, and we all thought he was at least nineteen.

BP digs in her wallet and shows us a few twenties. “This is all I’ve got.”

“Make it a hundred and fifty, then,” I sigh.

“You can write a check,” Tabby adds, irritation in her tone.

The old lady is huffy, but she pulls out her checkbook and starts to write. I lift the foil-covered cardboard tray and place it in a waiting gift box on the opposite counter. Her next words stop my breath.

“Bucky can’t wait until your date next Friday.”

Tabby gives me a horrified, I smell sour-milk face, and I cringe. “Whaaat is this about?” she asks.

“Emberly is such a dear.” Betty pats my forearm. “Bucky said after that brat Cheryl Ann dumped him last week, you talked to him for an hour at the Tuna Tiki.”

“How could you stand it?” my roommate says. “And what were you doing at Tuna Tiki?”