A Baker's Man - Part 1

For weeks I’ve watched the young man with the striking combination of blue eyes and black hair.  His clothes seem to get tighter every time I see him, the body beneath expanding to test their confines.  Recently, his shirts have started riding up, the fabric bunching at his waist and attempting to gather above his belly, where it wouldn’t be pulled quite as tight.  He always notices and tugs them back down, but sometimes not before I’ve had a few delicious moments of looking at the way his tummy presses out above the waistband of his increasingly constricting trousers.

Another month passes and another four visits go by.  I wonder where he goes on the days when he doesn’t come to us, because it’s clear he’s finding culinary fulfilment elsewhere as well.  Today he had carrier-bags in both hands when he arrived and, without a free hand to tug his shirt back into place, it had ridden up so that he was exposed to above his belly button.  He was blushing a furious shade of red by the time he’d put his bags on the floor in front of my counter, and tugged the shirt back into place.  I endeavour to save him some dignity by pretending I hadn’t noticed, but boy had I noticed!  He takes a tray and gathers a scone and jam and a double helping of chocolate fudge cake, then asks for a tea.

“Would you like me to heat that up and put some ice cream on it,” I ask, nodding at the fudge cake as I place a cup and a pot of tea on his tray.  He cocks his head slightly to the side, considering, and then nods.

“Yes please; that would be lovely,” he answers, sounding embarrassed.

“Take your tray and have a seat, and I’ll bring the cake out to you once it’s warmed.”  He picks up his bags and then gingerly slides his tray off the counter.  As he turns away from me I notice that the action of leaning down for the bags has caused his shirt to ride up again, and I can’t keep my eyes off the small but obvious love-handles that press out enticingly in the resultant gap in his clothing.  I usually go for slim and muscular men, so I don’t know why I’m so fascinated with the growing softness on this particular man.

I put the fudge cake in the microwave to heat, and then glance across at him.  He slides into a seat and tugs down on the front of his shirt, but the back is slightly caught up on the chair back and from my side-on angle I have a delicious view of the love-handles wrapping around his sides.  As he begins to spread the jam and cream on his scone, I watch, with growing arousal, as his shirt slowly slides back up at the front, until the fat pressing over the front of his waistband is just as visible as that on his sides.

What’s got into me, I wonder?  Why is it that he suddenly fills my fantasies with images of him eating, and glimpses of the new softness that’s collecting on his body?  Not only is he not what I usually go for, but he gets less so every time I see him, and yet I seem to find him more attractive?  Perhaps I’m ill.

The microwave pings, and I tear my eyes away from him in order to lift out his double slice of cake, then plop two heaping scoops of ice cream onto the top and carry the plate out to his table.  I place the cake down next to the now empty scone plate, and step back.  I'm tempted to try and start a conversation, but don’t want to be too forward, so I just head back to my position behind the counter.

The following Saturday he’s back again; this time in black jeans that are so tight around the waist that they force a couple of inches, or more, of fat out into a ‘muffin-top’ above the waistband, and a long, pale grey t-shirt that encases him like a sausage skin.  He glances into the glass case on the counter and spots the meringues.

“I’ll have a meringue, please,” he says, and I suppress a smile, knowing what will happen next.

“We’ve got four different flavours today: strawberry, which has strawberry cream filling and a strawberry buried in the meringue itself; honey, which has a swirl of honey through the meringue and a honey cream filling; chocolate, which speaks for itself; and nutmeg pear, which has nutmeg flavoured cream and a half pear sandwiched in there as well.  Which would you like?”  He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then gives the expected response.

“I’ll have one of each, please.”  A flash of guilt crosses his expression momentarily, and he opens his mouth as if he might say that he’s changed his mind, but then his eyes cloud with desire – what I think of as his glutton expression – and he closes it again.

“Would you like a tea with that?” I ask, and then add, without thinking, “or I could do a hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows?”  Again, that familiar flicker of guilt crosses his face before being suppressed, and he smiles broadly at me.

“Hot chocolate sounds wonderful,” he says, extracting his wallet from the ludicrously tight trousers, with slight difficulty.  He takes his loaded tray and moves across to one of the tables, and I surreptitiously watch him across the top of the glass case on the counter.

He looks at the four meringues and then selects one, licks around the edge of the cream, then closes his eyes and bites into one end.  After swallowing, he opens his eyes and picks his cup up with his other hand, closing his eyes again as he pours some of the rich chocolate down his throat and then licks away the cream moustache that it leaves behind.  I feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck in response to the expression of ecstasy on his face as he works his way through the meringues and chocolate.

I can’t tear my eyes away from this exhibition in decadence but, as he starts on the fourth one, I suddenly don’t want to see him leave.  It’s almost the end of the day and, without engaging my brain to consider what I’m doing, I gather the half-dozen remaining pastries onto a plate and slide out from behind the counter.

“Mind if I join you?” I ask him, tentatively, standing by his table.  He looks up in surprise and I see something flicker across his eyes too quickly for me to tell what it is.  After a second, he lifts a hand and indicates the chair opposite his.

“Be my guest,” he says, popping the last of the fourth meringue into his mouth.  I push the plate of pastries into the middle of the table and he glances at them and then looks at me in confusion.

“This lot are on-date today, so any that aren’t used will have to go in the bin.  Most days there’s only one or two so I eat them rather than see them go to waste, but for some reason there are more today than usual.  Are you up for helping me?” I ask, surprised to realise how much I’m hoping he’ll say yes.  He looks from me to the pastries a couple of times, and then shrugs and selects a cinnamon swirl.  I breathe a slight sigh of relief and take the one with strawberry and cream in the middle.

“I’m Andrew,” he says, reaching across the table with the hand that isn’t holding the pastry.

“Danni,” I tell him, shaking his hand, pleased to find his handshake firm: I hate a limp handshake.  His skin is soft, and warm, and I feel a tingle in my belly in response to his touch.

“I know,” he answers, raising an eyebrow and nodding towards my name badge.  I blush slightly and smile at him, shrugging.

“Oh yeah; forgot about that,” I say, sheepishly, and he smiles back.  The smile lifts his whole face, making his blue eyes shine, and erasing the frown lines that normally sit between his eyebrows.  He really is rather attractive: black hair worn slightly long to curl just above his collar; high cheekbones and a firm jaw, though both have softened in recent weeks; startlingly blue eyes framed with thick, black eyelashes; and a broad mouth with sensually full lips.  Usually, though, he wears a perpetual scowl, and his luscious lips are kept pressed tightly together... except when he’s eating: then his whole countenance softens and the tension leaves his features, only to return when his plate is emptied.  I realise that I’ve never seen him smile before.

He bites into the pastry and, as usual, closes his eyes.  He emits a soft sound like a cross between a moan and a purr, and the tingle in my belly grows into a dull ache.  I wonder if he makes this sound every time I see him close his eyes to savour his food, and I know that’s going to fuel my fantasies for some time to come.  He swallows and then opens his eyes and looks at me, and I watch a mix of emotions dance across his face, embarrassment chief among them.

“How do you stay so slim if you eat all the leftovers?” he asks, and then blushes again, the frown lines returning to between his brows.

“I'm lucky enough to have a fast metabolism, but I always have a light breakfast and lunch, and then decide what to have for my dinner once I know what leftovers I’ve had to eat.  If there are too many then I go for a run to stop the excess calories settling!”  I smile at him, hoping to elicit another smile in response, but his expression remains severe.

“I try that,” he tells me quietly, sounding as if he’s making a confession: “running to make space for snacking, I mean; but either I don’t run enough or I snack too much, because the calories sure as hell settle on me.”  His tone is bitter and I’m not sure what to say in response.  I take a bite of my pastry as an excuse not to talk, and after a moment of glowering contemplation, he does the same.  I watch in fascination as the strain leaves his features, pleasure smoothing the frown away.

“If you don’t mind me prying, why don’t you just reduce your snacking?” I ask, as he swallows, and then realise just how personal my question really is.  “Please don’t answer that,” I say, hurriedly.  “I can’t believe I asked that!”  He opens his eyes and frowns again, but I can tell it’s at himself rather than me, and then shrugs.

“No, it’s all right: that’s the obvious question,” he replies, his voice still bitter.  “Honestly?  Because the only time I feel good is when I’m eating.” He shrugs again and meets my eyes with such a desolate expression that I feel I should tell him to stop, except that I can’t seem to make my lips obey me.  “Trouble is, I don’t like the results,” he continues, pinching his belly so hard that his fingers turn white, and I want to grab his hand and then kiss away the red marks I know the pinch will have left on his soft tummy.

“It's a vicious circle: I don’t like the results so I feel down, so then I snack to feel better, and it’s pretty clear where that leads.” He sighs and looks down at the pastry in his hands, plonking it on the plate before looking back at me.  “I’ve always done the mood-related snacking thing, but I used to be able to pretty much control the results by running.  Since I broke up with my girlfriend, though, that doesn’t seem to be working anymore.”  I’m fairly sure I can see the sheen of tears in his eyes, but I don’t know what I can say to comfort him.

“Had you been together long?” I ask, after an uncomfortable pause, unable to think what else to say.  He regards me sadly and nods, sighing again.

“Almost eight years: we were ‘high-school sweethearts’.”  He makes quotation marks in the air with his fingers, and even that motion is filled with bitter anger.

“What happened to break you up?” I ask, immediately regretting yet another probing question but seeing little point in trying to withdraw it now it’s been said.  He laughs and it's predictably bitter in tone.

“Really, I think it was just that we’d grown apart – the relationship had run its course and we’re not the same people we were in school – but she made it about this.”  He pokes his belly, hard, and it's all I can do to stop myself from slapping his hand away.  “I said I could pretty much control the results of my snacking by running, but it was never a perfect strategy.  I’d put on about fifteen pounds since we left Uni, and she told me I was turning into a fat hog,” he makes quotation marks in the air again and I know he’s giving me his ex’s words verbatim, “and that she was leaving me for someone who still looks the way a man should, especially if he expects to keep someone in her league.”

He looks back at the half-eaten pastry and shrugs, lifting it to his mouth again and taking another bite.  As before, I can watch the tension leave his body as the flavours settle on his taste-buds.  I’m still reeling from the cruelty of his ex’s comments, and I want to tell him that to me he looks exactly the way a man should.  As usual, though, I don’t have the nerve.

“Sounds like you’re better off without her,” I say, quietly, as he finishes his mouthful and meets my eyes again.  “If you’d grown apart then it’s probably a good thing in the long-run.”  I think he tries to smile at me, but it looks more like a grimace, and I almost laugh.

“I don’t even like the person she’s become,” he says, his tone heavily ironic, “but when you’ve been with someone so long, it’s hard to suddenly not be with them.  Everything in our flat reminds me of her; I should move out and find somewhere new but I can’t seem to get the motivation for even that.”  He shrugs again, and then takes another bite of his pastry with that same little carnal noise that makes my insides flutter.

I take another bite of my own pastry, again more as a distraction than anything else, and wonder what on earth to say.  I glance towards the window and notice that the rain has come on.

“Heavens, look at that rain,” I exclaim, hearing the slight edge of desperation in my voice.  Thank God for the British propensity to talk about the weather as the fall-back conversation of choice.  He twists slightly in his chair, and looks at the window, grimacing at the water lashing against the glass.

“Oh joy: I’m going to get soaked going home.  The forecast said it would be dry this afternoon so I’ve not brought a jacket.”  He sounds despondent and, once again, I don’t give myself time to think before I respond.

“I can give you a lift home if you like?  It’ll take me fifteen-or-so minutes to close everything up, but then we can take my car.”  I realise that I don’t even know where he lives, and wonder if this suggestion is perhaps a bit too forward, but he looks at me gratefully.

“Would that really be okay?  It’ll only take about five minutes.  I don’t want to be any trouble, though.”  He gazes at me with quiet sincerity, and I feel another flutter inside.

“No trouble; I’ll leave you to finish off and I’ll head through to clear up.”  I push back my chair and stand, noticing that he’s finished his drink.  “Do you want another hot chocolate, while you wait?”  His face lights up at the thought, and then the frown returns.

“I really shouldn’t,” he says, sadly.

“That wasn’t what I asked, though, was it?” I say, smiling gently at him.  “I asked if you want one, not whether you should have one.”  He glances up at me and his expression softens, a slight smile even tugging at the corners of his mouth.  He nods, slowly, and I take his empty cup to the counter, bringing back another a few moments later.  As I turn away from the table, I notice that he’s finished the pastry he was eating and has picked up another one.  For some reason this sets my insides tingling again.

***

Just under twenty minutes later, we’re climbing into my car behind the shop.  Andrew had finished the other left-over pastries in the time it took me to get the place shut up, and I wonder how he now feels about that.  I think back to his comments earlier, and consider the ‘vicious circle’ that he described: how terrible that the only thing that makes him feel good is something whose effects later make him feel worse.  I feel a brief flush of irritation at society, for placing a stigma on the act of gaining weight, or even just indulging, and meaning that people so often feel bad for doing so.

“Left out of here,” he tells me, as I start the engine.  I nod, feeling him looking at me, and I speculate on what he sees.  I've always been very average in appearance: average height, slim but not skinny, with mid-brown eyes and dirty-blonde hair pulled untidily into a scrunchy at the back of my neck and running to between my shoulder blades.  From the corner of my eye, I see him return his gaze to the front, as we turn out of the alleyway leading from the back of the shop.

“What do you do for a living?” I ask him, curiosity getting the better of me.

“I’m in the financial sector,” he says, cryptically.  What on earth does that mean?  “Right at the lights.  How long have you worked in the bakery?” he asks, and I get the distinct impression that the purpose is to change the subject away from himself.

“It was my Mum’s, so I’ve been in and out of there as long as I can remember.  I worked there all my school holidays and then studied culinary arts at college and joined Mum for a few years afterwards.  She retired a few years ago, so that she and Dad could go and do some travelling, but she still comes back to help at busy times.”  I was rambling a bit, disconcerted by his quiet presence beside me.

“Where did you train?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested, though there’s an undertone in his voice and I wish I wasn’t driving so that I could watch his face.

“Westminster Kingsway: there’s a really good hospitality and culinary arts programme there.  What about you?  Did you have to train to be whatever sort of finance person you are?”  I’m keen to divert the conversation back onto him; I realise I really do want to learn more about him.

“I studied Accounting, Business Finance and Management, at York.  It’s a great course for anyone wanting to get into investment banking, or anything in the stock market, really.”  He trails off and there’s another slightly awkward pause in the conversation.

“Did your ex go to York as well, or did you have to do the… yeugh… long-distance thing?” I ask, for want of anything better to talk about.

“She went to Leeds, so we were close enough to visit.  Straight across the roundabout.  What about you?  Sounds like you have some experience with long-distance?”  Damnit, I want to know about him; why does he have to keep diverting the conversation back onto me?

“Huh, yeah, you could say that.  I dated my high-school boyfriend through the first eighteen months of my time at Uni; then started dated someone I met at Uni, but he went off to study in America for a year and we split up shortly after he got back; and then I was dating another Uni guy, but he stayed down there when I came back here.  I hate long-distance!”  Andrew chuckles, I assume at the vitriolic tone of my statement.

“What about now?” he asks, sounding shy.

“Am I dating anyone, you mean?”  I glance at him and he nods, looking embarrassed.  “Nah, I’ve given up: all the good guys seem to be already taken, or gay!” I say, laughing.

“Take the second left up here, and you’ll be in our road… my road.”  I can hear the pain in his voice as he corrects himself to remove the reference to his ex.  There’s another awkward pause as I turn into his road.  “Just past those trees on the right; you can pull in behind the black Beemer.  Thanks so much for the lift; I’d have been drenched if I’d had to walk home in this.”  He pauses again, as I pull up where he indicated, and I get the feeling he wants to say something more.

“Would you… never mind,” he murmurs, and I wonder if he was going to invite me in.  I’m not generally the sort of person who goes home with acquaintances, so I’m surprised to find that I wish he had.  “Thanks again,” he says, closing the door and dashing up to the front of one of the houses.  He unlocks the door and pushes it open, before turning in the doorway and waving me off.