The Cake

The cake had been going well.

They had laughed while mixing it, flour dusting the bench, music playing low. It felt easy. Comfortable. The kind of moment that suggests there might be more of these ahead.

Then, as Mara slid the cake across the bench, it tipped. The cake cracked and sagged to one side.

“Oh,” she said, pausing.
“That’s a shame.”

Jon looked at it for a second, then picked up the cake and walked straight to the bin.

“Oh no, it’s fine,” he said, tipping the cake in.
“Don’t worry about it.”

The lid shut.

Mara stayed where she was.

“It didn’t have to be chucked away,” she said gently.
“We could have fixed it. Or made a different one. Cupcakes, even.”

Jon wiped his hands quickly.

“I don’t really do mess,” he said lightly.
“Better to just get rid of it and move on.”

He rinsed his hands and grabbed his jacket.

“Maybe we can make a cake another time,” he said, already heading for the door.

Mara stood alone in the kitchen, the bench half wiped, the room suddenly quiet.

The cake hadn’t been perfect.
But it didn’t need to be chucked in the bin.

That didn’t make him a bad man.

He just hadn’t learned the skill of staying.